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ENGLAND,  MY  ENGLAND 


ENGLAND 
MY  ENGLAND 

AND  OTHER  STORIES 


BY 

D.  H.  LAWRENCE 


^ 


NEW  YORK 

THOMAS  SELTZER 

1922 


Copyright,  1922,  by 
THOMAS  SELTZER,  Inc. 

All  Rights  Reserved 


VSTNTEO   IN   THE   UVITEO  STATES  OV  AHEKXCA 


CONTENTS 


England,  My  England 

. 

3 

Tickets,  Please  .      .     . 

J         ■. 

51 

The  Blind  Man 

71 

Monkey  Nuts     .     . 

I 

lOI 

Wintry  Peacock 

123 

You  Touched  Me     . 

.     147 

Samson  and  Delilah 

175 

The  Primrose  Path 

201 

The  Horse  Dealer's  Daughter 

.     225 

Fanny  and  Annie    . 

,: 

.:        [ 

•«    253 

ENGLAND,  MY  ENGLAND 


/ 


ENGLAND,  MY  ENGLAND 

He  was  working  on  the  edge  of  the  common,  beyond  the 
small  brook  that  ran  in  the  dip  at  the  bottom  of  the  garden, 
carrying  the  garden  path  in  continuation  from  the  plank 
bridge  on  to  the  common.  He  had  cut  the  rough  turf  and 
bracken,  leaving  the  grey,  dryish  soil  bare.  But  he  was 
worried  because  he  could  not  get  the  path  straight,  there 
was  a  pleat  between  his  brows.  He  had  set  up  his  sticks, 
and  taken  the  sights  between  the  big  pine  trees,  but  for 
some  reason  everything  seemed  wrong.  He  looked  again, 
straining  his  keen  blue  eyes,  that  had  a  touch  of  the  Viking 
in  them,  through  the  shadowy  pine  trees  as  through  a  door- 
way, at  the  green-grassed  garden-path  rising  from  the 
shadow  of  alders  by  the  log  bridge  up  to  the  sunlit  flowers. 
Tall  white  and  purple  columbines,  and  the  butt-end  of  the 
old  Hampshire  cottage  that  crouched  near  the  earth  amid 
flowers,  blossoming  in  the  bit  of  shaggy  wildness  round 
about. 

There  was  a  sound  of  children's  voices  calling  and  talk- 
ing: high,  childish,  girlish  voices,  slightly  didactic  and 
tinged  with  domineering:  "If  you  don't  come  quick,  nurse, 
I  shall  run  out  there  to  where  there  are  snakes."  And 
nobody  had  the  sang-froid  to  reply:  "Run  then,  little 
fool."  It  was  always  "No,  darling.  Very  well,  darling. 
In  a  moment,  darling.    Darling,  you  musi  be  patient." 

His   heart   was   hard   with   disillusion:     a   continual 

3 


4  ENGLAND,  MY  ENGLAND 

gnawing  and  resistance.  But  he  worked  on.  What  wag 
there  to  do  but  submit! 

The  sunlight  blazed  down  upon  the  earth,  there  was  a 
vividness  of  flamy  vegetation,  of  fierce  seclusion  amid  the 
savage  peace  of  the  commons.  Strange  how  the  savage 
England  lingers  in  patches:  as  here,  amid  these  shaggy 
gorse  commons,  and  marshy,  snake-infested  places  near 
the  foot  of  the  south  downs.  The  spirit  of  place  lingering 
on  primeval,  as  when  the  Saxons  came,  so  long  ago. 

Ah,  how  he  had  loved  it!  The  green  garden  path,  the 
tufts  of  flowers,  purple  and  white  columbines,  and  great 
oriental  red  poppies  with  their  black  chaps,  and  mulleins 
tall  and  yellow:  this  flamy  garden  which  had  been  a 
garden  for  a  thousand  years,  scooped  out  in  the  little  hol- 
low among  the  snake-infested  commons.  He  had  made  it 
flame  with  flowers,  in  a  sun  cup  under  its  hedges  and  trees. 
So  old,  so  old  a  place  I    And  yet  he  had  re-created  it. 

The  timbered  cottage  with  its  sloping,  cloak-like  roof 
was  old  and  forgotten.  It  belonged  to  the  old  England 
of  hamlets  and  yeomen.  Lost  all  alone  on  the  edge  of  the 
common,  at  the  end  of  a  wide,  grassy,  briar-entangled  lane 
shaded  with  oak,  it  had  never  known  the  world  of  to-day. 
Not  till  Egbert  came  with  his  bride.  And  he  had  come  to 
fill  it  with  flowers. 

The  house  was  ancient  and  very  uncomfortable.  But 
he  did  not  want  to  alter  it.  Ah,  marvellous  to  sit  there  in 
the  wide,  black,  time-old  chimney,  at  night  when  the  wind 
roared  overhead,  and  the  wood  which  he  had  chopped 
himself  sputtered  on  the  hearth  I  Himself  on  one  side  the 
angle,  and  Winifred  on  the  other. 

Ah,  how  he  had  wanted  her:  Winifred!    She  was  young 


ENGLAND,  MY  ENGLAND  5 

and  beautiful  and  strong  with  life,  like  a  flame  in  sunshine. 
She  moved  with  a  slow  grace  of  energy  like  a  blossoming, 
red-flowered  bush  in  motion.  She,  too,  seemed  to  come 
out  of  the  old  England,  ruddy,  strong,  with  a  certain  crude, 
passionate  quiescence  and  a  hawthorn  robustness.  And 
he,  he  was  tall  and  slim  and  agile,  like  an  English  archer, 
with  his  long,  supple  legs  and  fine  movements.  Her  hair 
was  nut-brown  and  all  in  energic  curls  and  tendrils.  Her 
eyes  were  nut-brown,  too,  like  a  robin's  for  brightness. 
And  he  was  white-skinned  with  fine,  silky  hair  that  had 
darkened  from  fair,  and  a  slightly  arched  nose  of  an  old 
country  family.    They  were  a  beautiful  couple. 

The  house  was  Winifred's.  Her  father  was  a  man  of 
energy  too.  He  had  come  from  the  north  poor.  Now  he 
was  moderately  rich.  He  had  bought  this  fair  stretch  of 
inexpensive  land,  down  in  Hampshire.  Not  far  from  the 
tiny  church  of  the  almost  extinct  hamlet  stood  his  own 
house,  a  commodious  old  farm-house  standing  back  from 
the  road  across  a  bare  grassed  yard.  On  one  side  of  this 
quadrangle  was  the  long,  long  barn  or  shed  which  he  had 
made  into  a  cottage  for  his  youngest  daughter  Priscilla. 
One  saw  little  blue-and-white  check  curtains  at  the  long 
windows,  and  inside,  overhead,  the  grand  old  timbers 
of  the  high-pitched  shed.  This  was  Prissy's  house.  Fifty 
yards  away  was  the  pretty  little  new  cottage  which  he  had 
built  for  his  daughter  Magdalen,  with  the  vegetable  garden 
stretching  away  to  the  oak  copse.  And  then  away  beyond 
the  lawns  and  rose-trees  of  the  house-garden  went  the 
track  across  a  shaggy,  wild  grass  space,  towards  the  ridge 
of  tall  black  pines  that  grew  on  a  dyke-bank,  through  the 
pines  and  above  the  sloping  little  bog,  under  the  wide, 


6  ENGLAND,  MY  ENGLAND 

desolate  oak  trees,  till  there  was  Winifred's  cottage 
crouching  unexpectedly  in  front,  so  much  alone,  and  so 
primitive. 

It  was  Winifred's  own  house,  and  the  gardens  and  the 
bit  of  common  and  the  boggy  slope  were  hers:  her  tiny 
domain.  She  had  married  just  at  the  time  when  her 
father  had  bought  the  estate,  about  ten  years  before  the 
war,  so  she  had  been  able  to  come  to  Egbert  with  this  for 
a  marriage  portion.  And  who  was  more  delighted,  he  or 
she,  it  would  be  hard  to  say.  She  was  only  twenty  at  the 
time,  and  he  was  only  twenty-one.  He  had  about  a  hun- 
dred and  fifty  pounds  a  year  of  his  own — and  nothing  else 
but  his  very  considerable  personal  attractions.  He  had 
no  profession :  he  earned  nothing.  But  he  talked  of  litera- 
ture and  music,  he  had  a  passion  for  old  folk-music,  col- 
lecting folk-songs  and  folk-dances,  studying  the  Morris- 
dance  and  the  old  customs.  Of  course  in  time  he  would 
make  money  in  these  ways. 

Meanwhile  youth  and  health  and  passion  and  promise. 
Winifred's  father  was  always  generous:  but  still,  he  was 
a  man  from  the  north  with  a  hard  head  and  a  hard  skin 
too,  having  received  a  good  many  knocks.  At  home  he 
kept  the  hard  head  out  of  sight,  and  played  at  poetry  and 
romance  with  his  literary  wife  and  his  sturdy,  passionate 
girls.  He  was  a  man  of  courage,  not  given  to  complaining, 
bearing  his  burdens  by  himself.  No,  he  did  not  let  the 
world  intrude  far  into  his  home.  He  had  a  delicate,  sensi- 
tive wife  whose  poetry  won  some  fame  in  the  narrow  world 
of  letters.  He  himself,  with  his  tough  old  barbarian  fight- 
ing spirit,  had  an  almost  child-like  delight  in  verse,  in  sweet 
poetry,  and  in  the  delightful  game  of  a  cultured  home. 


ENGLAND,  MY  ENGLAND  7 

His  blood  was  strong  even  to  coarseness.  But  that  only 
made  the  home  more  vigorous,  more  robust  and  Christ- 
massy. There  was  always  a  touch  of  Christmas  about 
him,  now  he  was  well  off.  If  there  was  poetry  after  din- 
ner, there  were  also  chocolates,  and  nuts,  and  good  little 
out-of-the-way  things  to  be  munching. 

Well  then,  into  this  family  came  Egbert.  He  was  made 
of  quite  a  different  paste.  The  girls  and  the  father  were 
strong-limbed,  thick-blooded  people,  true  English,  as 
holly-trees  and  hawthorn  are  English.  Their  culture  was 
grafted  on  to  them,  as  one  might  perhaps  graft  a  common 
pink  rose  on  to  a  thorn-stem.  It  flowered  oddly  enough, 
but  it  did  not  alter  their  blood. 

And  Egbert  was  a  born  rose.  The  age-long  breeding 
had  left  him  with  a  delightful  spontaneous  passion.  He 
was  not  clever,  nor  even  *'literary."  No,  but  the  intona- 
tion of  his  voice,  and  the  movement  of  his  supple,  hand- 
some body,  and  the  fine  texture  of  his  flesh  and  his  hair, 
the  slight  arch  of  his  nose,  the  quickness  of  his  blue  eyes 
would  easily  take  the  place  of  poetry.  Winifred  loved 
him,  loved  him,  this  southerner,  as  a  higher  being.  A 
higher  being,  mind  you.  Not  a  deeper.  And  as  for  him, 
he  loved  her  in  passion  with  every  fibre  of  him.  She  was 
the  very  warm  stuff  of  life  to  him, 

Wonderful  then,  those  days  at  Crockham  Cottage,  the 
first  days,  all  alone  save  for  the  woman  who  came  to  work 
in  the  mornings.  Marvellous  days,  when  she  had  all  his 
tall,  supple,  fine-fleshed  youth  to  herself,  for  herself,  and 
he  had  her  like  a  ruddy  fire  into  which  he  could  cast  him- 
self for  rejuvenation.  Ah,  that  it  might  never  end,  this 
passion,  this  marriage  1     The  flame  of  their  two  bodies 


8  ENGLAND,  MY  ENGLAND 

burnt  again  into  that  old  cottage,  that  was  haunted  already 
by  so  much  by-gone,  physical  desire.  You  could  not  be 
in  the  dark  room  for  an  hour  without  the  influences  coming 
over  you.  The  hot  blood-desire  of  by-gone  yeomen,  there 
in  this  old  den  where  they  had  lusted  and  bred  for  so  many 
generations.  The  silent  house,  dark,  with  thick,  timbered 
walls  and  the  big  black  chimney-place,  and  the  sense  of 
secrecy.  Dark,  with  low,  little  windows,  sunk  into  the 
earth.  Dark,  like  a  lair  where  strong  beasts  had  lurked 
and  mated,  lonely  at  night  and  lonely  by  day,  left  to  them- 
selves and  their  own  intensity  for  so  many  generations. 
It  seemed  to  cast  a  spell  on  the  two  young  people.  They 
became  different.  There  was  a  curious  secret  glow  about 
them,  a  certain  slumbering  flame  hard  to  understand,  that 
enveloped  them  both.  They  too  felt  that  they  did  not 
belong  to  the  London  world  any  more.  Crockham  had 
changed  their  blood :  the  sense  of  the  snakes  that  lived  and 
slept  even  in  their  own  garden,  in  the  sun,  so  that  he, 
going  forward  with  the  spade,  would  see  a  curious  coiled 
brownish  pile  on  the  black  soil,  which  suddenly  would 
start  up,  hiss,  and  dazzle  rapidly  away,  hissing.  One  day 
Winifred  heard  the  strangest  scream  from  the  flower-bed 
under  the  low  window  of  the  living  room :  ah,  the  strangest 
scream,  like  the  very  soul  of  the  dark  past  crying  aloud. 
She  ran  out,  and  saw  a  long  brown  snake  on  the  flower- 
bed, and  in  its  flat  mouth  the  one  hind  leg  of  a  frog  was 
striving  to  escape,  and  screaming  its  strange,  tiny,  bellow- 
ing scream.  She  looked  at  the  snake,  and  from  its  sullen 
flat  head  it  looked  at  her,  obstinately.  She  gave  a  cry, 
and  it  released  the  frog  and  slid  angrily  away. 

That  was  Crockham.    The  spear  of  modern  invention 


ENGLAND,  MY  ENGLAND  9 

had  not  passed  through  it,  and  it  lay  there  secret,  primi- 
tive, savage  as  when  the  Saxons  first  came.  And  Egbert 
and  she  were  caught  there,  caught  out  of  the  world. 

He  was  not  idle,  nor  was  she.  There  were  plenty  of 
things  to  be  done,  the  house  to  be  put  into  final  repair 
after  the  workmen  had  gone,  cushions  and  curtains  to 
sew,  the  paths  to  make,  the  water  to  fetch  and  attend  to, 
and  then  the  slope  of  the  deep-soiled,  neglected  garden  to 
level,  to  terrace  with  little  terraces  and  paths,  and  to  fill 
with  flowers.  He  worked  away,  in  his  shirt-sleeves, 
worked  all  day  intermittently  doing  this  thing  and  the 
other.  And  she,  quiet  and  rich  in  herself,  seeing  him 
stooping  and  labouring  away  by  himself,  would  come  to 
help  him,  to  be  near  him.  He  of  course  was  an  amateur — 
a  born  amateur.  He  worked  so  hard,  and  did  so  little, 
and  nothing  he  ever  did  would  hold  together  for  long.  If 
he  terraced  the  garden,  he  held  up  the  earth  with  a  couple 
of  long  narrow  planks  that  soon  began  to  bend  with  the 
pressure  from  behind,  and  would  not  need  many  years  to 
rot  through  and  break  and  let  the  soil  slither  all  down 
again  in  a  heap  towards  the  stream-bed.  But  there  you 
are.  He  had  not  been  brought  up  to  come  to  grips  with 
anything,  and  he  thought  it  would  do.  Nay,  he  did  not 
think  there  was  anything  else  except  little  temporary  con- 
trivances possible,  he  who  had  such  a  passion  for  his  old 
enduring  cottage,  and  for  the  old  enduring  things  of  the 
by-gone  England.  Curious  that  the  sense  of  permanency 
in  the  past  had  such  a  hold  over  him,  whilst  in  the  present 
he  was  all  amateurish  and  sketchy. 

Winifred  could  not  criticise  him.  Town-bred,  every- 
thing seemed  to  her  splendid,  and  the  very  digging  and 


lo  ENGLAND,  MY  ENGLAND 

shovelling  itself  seemed  romantic.  But  neither  Egbert 
nor  she  yet  realised  the  difference  between  work  and 
romance. 

Godfrey  Marshall,  her  father,  was  at  first  perfectly 
pleased  with  the  menage  down  at  Crockham  Cottage.  He 
thought  Egbert  was  wonderful,  the  many  things  he  accom- 
plished, and  he  was  gratified  by  the  glow  of  physical  pas- 
sion between  the  two  young  people.  To  the  man  who  in 
London  still  worked  hard  to  keep  steady  his  modest  for- 
tune, the  thought  of  this  young  couple  digging  away  and 
loving  one  another  down  at  Crockham  Cottage,  buried 
deep  among  the  commons  and  marshes,  near  the  pale- 
showing  bulk  of  the  downs,  was  like  a  chapter  of  living 
romance.  And  they  drew  the  sustenance  for  their  fire 
of  passion  from  him,  from  the  old  man.  It  was  he  who 
fed  their  flame.  He  triumphed  secretly  in  the  thought. 
And  it  was  to  her  father  that  Winifred  still  turned,  as  the 
one  source  of  all  surety  and  life  and  support.  She  loved 
Egbert  with  passion.  But  back  of  her  was  the  power  of 
her  father.  It  was  the  power  of  her  father  she  referred 
to,  whenever  she  needed  to  refer.  It  never  occurred  to  her 
to  refer  to  Egbert,  if  she  were  in  difficulty  or  doubt.  No, 
in  all  the  serious  matters  she  depended  on  her  father. 

For  Egbert  had  no  intention  of  coming  to  grips  with  life. 
He  had  no  ambition  whatsoever.  He  came  from  a  decent 
family,  from  a  pleasant  country  home,  from  delightful 
surroundings.  He  should,  of  course,  have  had  a  profes- 
sion. He  should  have  studied  law  or  entered  business  in 
some  way.  But  no — that  fatal  three  pounds  a  week 
would  keep  him  from  starving  as  long  as  he  lived,  and  he 
did  not  want  to  give  himself  into  bondage.    It  was  not 


ENGLAND,  MY  ENGLAND  ii 

that  he  was  idle.  He  was  always  doing  something,  in  his 
amateurish  way.  But  he  had  no  desire  to  give  himself  to 
the  world,  and  still  less  had  he  any  desire  to  fight  his 
way  in  the  world.  No,  no,  the  world  wasn't  worth  it.  He 
wanted  to  ignore  it,  to  go  his  own  way  apart,  like  a  casual 
pilgrim  down  the  forsaken  side-tracks.  He  loved  his 
wife,  his  cottage  and  garden.  He  would  make  his  life 
there,  as  a  sort  of  epicurean  hermit.  He  loved  the  past, 
the  old  music  and  dances  and  customs  of  old  England. 
He  would  try  and  live  in  the  spirit  of  these,  not  in  the 
spirit  of  the  world  of  business. 

But  often  Winifred's  father  called  her  to  London:  for 
he  loved  to  have  his  children  round  him.  So  Egbert  and 
she  must  have  a  tiny  flat  in  town,  and  the  young  couple 
must  transfer  themselves  from  time  to  time  from  the 
country  to  the  city.  In  town  Egbert  had  plenty  of  friends, 
of  the  same  ineffectual  sort  as  himself,  tampering  with  the 
arts,  literature,  painting,  sculpture,  music.  He  was  not 
bored. 

Three  pounds  a  week,  however,  would  not  pay  for  all 
this.  Winifred's  father  paid.  He  liked  paying.  He  made 
her  only  a  very  small  allowance,  but  he  often  gave  her 
ten  pounds — or  gave  Egbert  ten  pounds.  So  they  both 
looked  on  the  old  man  as  the  mainstay.  Egbert  didn't 
mind  being  patronised  and  paid  for.  Only  when  he  felt 
the  family  was  a  little  too  condescending,  on  account  of 
money,  he  began  to  get  huffy. 

Then  of  course  children  came:  a  lovely  little  blonde 
daughter  with  a  head  of  thistle-down.  Everybody  adored 
the  child.  It  was  the  first  exquisite  blonde  thing  that  had 
come  into  the  family,  a  little  mite  with  the  white,  slim. 


12  ENGLAND,  MY  ENGLAND 

beautiful  limbs  of  its  father,  and  as  it  grew  up  the  danc- 
ing, dainty  movement  of  a  wild  little  daisy-spirit.  No 
wonder  the  Marshalls  all  loved  the  child:  they  called  her 
Joyce.  They  themselves  had  their  own  grace,  but  it  was 
slow,  rather  heavy.  They  had  everyone  of  them  strong, 
heavy  limbs  and  darkish  skins,  and  they  were  short  in 
stature.  And  now  they  had  for  one  of  their  own  this  light 
little  cowslip  child.    She  was  like  a  little  poem  in  herself. 

But  nevertheless,  she  brought  a  new  difficulty.  Wini- 
fred must  have  a  nurse  for  her.  Yes,  yes,  there  must  be 
a  nurse.  It  was  the  family  decree.  Who  was  to  pay  for 
the  nurse?  The  grandfather — seeing  the  father  himself 
earned  no  money.  Yes,  the  grandfather  would  pay,  as  he 
had  paid  all  the  lying-in  expenses.  There  came  a  slight 
sense  of  money-strain.  Egbert  was  living  on  his  father- 
in-law. 

After  the  child  was  born,  it  was  never  quite  the  same 
between  him  and  Winifred.  The  difference  was  at  first 
hardly  perceptible.  But  it  was  there.  In  the  first  place 
Winifred  had  a  new  centre  of  interest.  She  was  not  going 
to  adore  her  child.  But  she  had  what  the  modern  mother 
so  often  has  in  the  place  of  spontaneous  love:  a  profound 
sense  of  duty  towards  her  child.  Winifred  appreciated 
her  darling  little  girl,  and  felt  a  deep  sense  of  duty  towards 
her.  Strange,  that  this  sense  of  duty  should  go  deeper 
than  the  love  for  her  husband.  But  so  it  was.  And  so 
it  often  is.  The  responsibility  of  motherhood  was  the 
prime  responsibility  in  Winifred's  heart:  the  responsi- 
bility of  wifehood  came  a  long  way  second. 

Her  child  seemed  to  link  her  up  again  in  a  circuit  with 
her  own  family.    Her  father  and  mother,  herself,  and  her 


ENGLAND,  MY  ENGLAND  13 

child,  that  was  the  human  trinity  for  her.  Her  hus- 
band— ?  Yes,  she  loved  him  still.  But  that  was  like 
play.  She  had  an  almost  barbaric  sense  of  duty  and  of 
family.  Till  she  married,  her  first  human  duty  had  been 
towards  her  father:  he  was  the  pillar,  the  source  of  life, 
the  everlasting  support.  Now  another  link  was  added  to 
the  chain  of  duty:  her  father,  herself,  and  her  child. 

Egbert  was  out  of  it.  Without  anything  happening,  he 
was  gradually,  unconsciously  excluded  from  the  circle. 
His  wife  still  loved  him,  physically.  But,  but — he  was 
almost  the  unnecessary  party  in  the  affair.  He  could  not 
complain  of  Winifred.  She  still  did  her  duty  towards 
him.  She  still  had  a  physical  passion  for  him,  that  phys- 
ical passion  on  which  he  had  put  all  his  life  and  soul.  But 
—but— 

It  was  for  a  long  while  an  ever-recurring  but.  And 
then,  after  the  second  child,  another  blonde,  winsome 
touching  little  thing,  not  so  proud  and  flame-like  as  Joyce; 
after  Annabel  came,  then  Egbert  began  truly  to  realise 
how  it  was.  His  wife  still  loved  him.  But — and  now  the 
but  had  grown  enormous — her  physical  love  for  him  was 
of  secondary  importance  to  her.  It  became  ever  less 
important.  After  all,  she  had  had  it,  this  physical  pas- 
sion, for  two  years  now.  It  was  not  this  that  one  lived 
from.     No,  no — something  sterner,  realer. 

She  began  to  resent  her  own  passion  for  Egbert — ^just 
a  little  she  began  to  despise  it.  For  after  all  there  he  was, 
he  was  charming,  he  was  lovable,  he  was  terribly  desir- 
able. But — but — oh  the  awful  looming  cloud  of  that 
but/ — ^He  did  not  stand  firm  in  the  landscape  of  her  life 
like  a  tower  of  strength,  like  a  great  pillar  of  significance. 


14  ENGLAND,  MY  ENGLAND 

No,  he  was  like  a  cat  one  has  about  the  house,  which  will 
one  day  disappear  and  leave  no  trace.  He  was  like  a 
flower  in  the  garden,  trembling  in  the  wind  of  life,  and 
then  gone,  leaving  nothing  to  show.  As  an  adjunct,  as 
an  accessory,  he  was  perfect.  Many  a  woman  would  have 
adored  to  have  him  about  her  all  her  life,  the  most  beau- 
tiful and  desirable  of  all  her  possessions.  But  Winifred 
belonged  to  another  school. 

The  years  went  by,  and  instead  of  coming  more  to 
grips  with  life,  he  relaxed  more.  He  was  of  a  subtle, 
sensitive,  passionate  nature.  But  he  simply  would  not 
give  himself  to  what  Winifred  called  life,  Work.  No,  he 
would  not  go  into  the  world  and  work  for  money.  No,  he 
just  would  not.  If  Winifred  liked  to  live  beyond  their 
small  income — well,  it  was  her  look-out. 

And  Winifred  did  not  really  want  him  to  go  out  into 
the  world  to  work  for  money.  Money  became,  alas,  a 
word  like  a  firebrand  between  them,  setting  them  both 
aflame  with  anger.  But  that  is  because  we  must  talk  in 
symbols.  Winifred  did  not  really  care  about  money.  She 
did  not  care  whether  he  earned  or  did  not  earn  anything. 
Only  she  knew  she  was  dependent  on  her  father  for  three- 
fourths  of  the  money  spent  for  herself  and  her  children, 
and  she  let  that  be  the  casus  belli,  the  drawn  weapon 
between  herself  and  Egbert. 

What  did  she  want? — ^what  did  she  want?  Her  mother 
once  said  to  her,  with  that  characteristic  touch  of  irony: 
*'Well,  dear,  if  it  is  your  fate  to  consider  the  lilies,  that 
toil  not,  neither  do  they  spin,  that  is  one  destiny  among 
many  others,  and  perhaps  not  so  unpleasant  as  most. 
Why  do  you  take  it  amiss,  my  child?" 


ENGLAND,  MY  ENGLAND  15 

The  mother  was  subtler  than  her  children,  they  very 
rarely  knew  how  to  answer  her.  So  Winifred  was  only 
more  confused.  It  was  not  a  question  of  lilies.  At  least, 
if  it  were  a  question  of  lilies,  then  her  children  were  the 
little  blossoms.  They  at  least  grew.  Doesn't  Jesus  say: 
"Consider  the  lilies  how  they  grow'*  Good  then,  she  had 
her  growing  babies.  But  as  for  that  other  tall,  handsome 
flower  of  a  father  of  theirs,  he  was  full  grown  already, 
so  she  did  not  want  to  spend  her  life  considering  him  in 
the  flower  of  his  days. 

No,  it  was  not  that  he  didn't  earn  money.  It  was  not 
that  he  was  idle.  He  was  not  idle.  He  was  always  doing 
something,  always  working  away,  down  at  Crockham,  do- 
ing little  jobs.  But  oh  dear,  the  little  jobs — the  garden 
paths — ^the  gorgeous  flowers — the  chairs  to  mend,  old 
chairs  to  mend ! 

It  was  that  he  stood  for  nothing.  If  he  had  done  some- 
thing unsuccessfully,  and  lost  what  money  they  had!  If 
he  had  but  striven  with  something.  Nay,  even  if  he  had 
been  wicked,  a  waster,  she  would  have  been  more  free. 
She  would  have  had  something  to  resist,  at  least.  A  waster 
stands  for  something,  really.  He  says:  "No,  I  will  not 
aid  and  abet  society  in  this  business  of  increase  and  hang- 
ing together,  I  will  upset  the  apple-cart  as  much  as  I  can, 
in  my  small  way.'*  Or  else  he  says:  "No,  I  will  not  bother 
about  others.  If  I  have  lusts,  they  are  my  own,  and  I 
prefer  them  to  other  people's  virtues."  So,  a  waster,  a 
scamp,  takes  a  sort  of  stand.  He  exposes  himself  to 
opposition  and  final  castigation:  at  any  rate  in  story- 
books. 

But  Egbert!     What  are  you  to  do  with  a  man  like 


i6  ENGLAND,  MY  ENGLAND 

Egbert?  He  had  no  vices.  He  was  really  kind,  nay  gen- 
erous. And  he  was  not  weak.  If  he  had  been  weak  Wini- 
fred could  have  been  kind  to  him.  But  he  did  not  even 
give  her  that  consolation.  He  was  not  weak,  and  he  did 
not  want  her  consolation  or  her  kindness.  No  thank  you. 
He  was  of  a  fine  passionate  temper,  and  of  a  rarer  steel 
than  she.  He  knew  it,  and  she  knew  it.  Hence  she  was 
only  the  more  baffled  and  maddened,  poor  thing.  He,  the 
higher,  the  finer,  in  his  way  the  stronger,  played  with  his 
garden  and  his  old  folk-songs  and  Morris-dances,  just 
played,  and  let  her  support  the  pillars  of  the  future  on 
her  own  heart. 

And  he  began  to  get  bitter,  and  a  wicked  look  began  to 
come  on  his  face.  He  did  not  give  in  to  her;  not  he. 
There  were  seven  devils  inside  his  long,  slim  white  body. 
He  was  healthy,  full  of  restrained  life.  Yes,  even  he  him- 
self had  to  lock  up  his  own  vivid  life  inside  himself,  now 
she  would  not  take  it  from  him.  Or  rather,  now  that 
she  only  took  it  occasionally.  For  she  had  to  yield  at 
times.  She  loved  him  so,  she  desired  him  so,  he  was  so 
exquisite  to  her,  the  fine  creature  that  he  was,  finer  than 
herself.  Yes,  with  a  groan  she  had  to  give  in  to  her  own 
unquenched  passion  for  him.  And  he  came  to  her  then — 
ah  terrible,  ah  wonderful,  sometimes  she  wondered  how 
either  of  them  could  live  after  the  terror  of  the  passion 
that  swept  between  them.  It  was  to  her  as  if  pure  light- 
ning, flash  after  flash,  went  through  every  fibre  of  her, 
till  extinction  came. 

But  it  is  the  fate  of  human  beings  to  live  on.  And  it  is 
the  fate  of  clouds  that  seem  nothing  but  bits  of  vapour 


ENGLAND,  MY  ENGLAND  17 

slowly  to  pile  up,  to  pile  up  and  fill  the  heavens  and 
blacken  the  sun  entirely. 

So  it  was.  The  love  came  back,  the  lightning  of  pas- 
sion flashed  tremendously  between  them.  And  there  was 
blue  sky  and  gorgeousness  for  a  little  while.  And  then, 
as  inevitably,  as  inevitably,  slowly  the  clouds  began  to 
edge  up  again  above  the  horizon,  slowly,  slowly  to  lurk 
about  the  heavens,  throwing  an  occasional  cold  and  hate- 
ful shadow:  slowly,  slowly  to  congregate,  to  fill  the  empy- 
rean space. 

And  as  the  years  passed,  the  lightning  cleared  the  sky 
more  and  more  rarely,  less  and  less  the  blue  showed. 
Gradually  the  grey  lid  sank  down  upon  them,  as  if  it 
would  be  permanent. 

Why  didn't  Egbert  do  something,  then?  Why  didn't 
he  come  to  grips  with  life?  Why  wasn't  he  like  Wini- 
fred's father,  a  pillar  of  society,  even  if  a  slender,  exquisite 
column?  Why  didn't  he  go  into  harness  of  some  sort? 
Why  didn't  he  take  some  direction? 

Well,  you  can  bring  an  ass  to  the  water,  but  you  can- 
not make  him  drink.  The  world  was  the  water  and  Egbert 
was  the  ass.  And  he  wasn't  having  any.  He  couldn't: 
he  just  couldn't.  Since  necessity  did  not  force  him  to 
work  for  his  bread  and  butter,  he  would  not  work  for 
work's  sake.  You  can't  make  the  columbine  flowers  nod 
in  January,  nor  make  the  cuckoo  sing  in  England  at 
Christmas.  Why?  It  isn't  his  season.  He  doesn't  want 
to.    Nay,  he  canH  want  to. 

And  there  it  was  with  Egbert.  He  couldn't  link  up 
with  the  world's  work,  because  the  basic  desire  was 
absent  from  him.    Nay,  at  the  bottom  of  him  he  had  an 


i8  ENGLAND,  MY  ENGLAND 

even  stronger  desire:  to  hold  aloof.  To  hold  aloof.  To 
do  nobody  any  damage.  But  to  hold  aloof.  It  was  not 
his  season. 

Perhaps  he  should  not  have  married  and  had  children. 
But  you  can't  stop  the  waters  flowing. 

Which  held  true  for  Winifred  too.  She  was  not  made 
to  endure  aloof.  Her  family  tree  was  a  robust  vegetation 
that  had  to  be  stirring  and  believing.  In  one  direction  or 
another  her  life  had  to  go.  In  her  own  home  she  had 
known  nothing  of  this  diffidence  which  she  found  in 
Egbert,  and  which  she  could  not  understand,  and  which 
threw  her  into  such  dismay.  What  was  she  to  do,  what 
was  she  to  do,  in  face  of  this  terrible  diffidence? 

It  was  all  so  different  in  her  own  home.  Her  father 
may  have  had  his  own  misgivings,  but  he  kept  them  to 
himself.  Perhaps  he  had  no  very  profound  belief  in  this 
world  of  ours,  this  society  which  we  have  elaborated  with 
so  much  effort,  only  to  find  ourselves  elaborated  to  death 
at  last.  But  Godfrey  Marshall  was  of  tough,  rough  fibre, 
not  without  a  vein  of  healthy  cunning  through  it  all.  It 
was  for  him  a  question  of  winning  through,  and  leaving 
the  rest  to  heaven.  Without  having  many  illusions  to 
grace  him,  he  still  did  believe  in  heaven.  In  a  dark  and 
imquestioning  way,  he  had  a  sort  of  faith:  an  acrid  faith 
like  the  sap  of  some  not-to-be-exterminated  tree.  Just  a 
blind  acrid  faith  as  sap  is  blind  and  acrid,  and  yet  pushes 
on  in  growth  and  in  faith.  Perhaps  he  was  unscrupulous, 
but  only  as  a  striving  tree  is  unscrupulous,  pushing  its 
single  way  in  a  jungle  of  others. 

In  the  end,  it  is  only  this  robust,  sap-like  faith  which 
keeps  man  going.    He  may  live  on  for  many  generations 


ENGLAND,  MY  ENGLAND  19 

inside  the  shelter  of  the  social  establishment  which  he  has 
erected  for  himself,  as  pear-trees  and  currant  bushes 
would  go  on  bearing  fruit  for  many  seasons,  inside  a 
walled  garden,  even  if  the  race  of  man  were  suddenly 
exterminated.  But  bit  by  bit  the  wall-fruit-trees  would 
gradually  pull  down  the  very  walls  that  sustained  them. 
Bit  by  bit  every  establishment  collapses,  unless  it  is  re- 
newed or  restored  by  living  hands,  all  the  while. 

Egbert  could  not  bring  himself  to  any  more  of  this 
restoring  or  renewing  business.  He  was  not  aware  of  the 
fact:  but  awareness  doesn't  help  much,  anyhow.  He  just 
couldn't.  He  had  the  stoic  and  epicurean  quality  of  his 
old,  fine  breeding.  His  father-in-law,  however,  though 
he  was  not  one  bit  more  of  a  fool  than  Egbert,  realised 
that  since  we  are  here  we  may  as  well  live.  And  so  he 
applied  himself  to  his  own  tiny  section  of  the  social  work, 
and  to  doing  the  best  for  his  family,  and  to  leaving  the 
rest  to  the  ultimate  will  of  heaven.  A  certain  robustness 
of  blood  made  him  able  to  go  on.  But  sometimes  even 
from  him  spurted  a  sudden  gall  of  bitterness  against  the 
world  and  its  make-up.  And  yet — ^he  had  his  own  will- 
to-succeed,  and  this  carried  him  through.  He  refused  to 
ask  himself  what  the  success  would  amount  to.  It 
amounted  to  the  estate  down  in  Hampshire,  and  his  chil- 
dren lacking  for  nothing,  and  himself  of  some  importance 
in  the  world:  and  bastaf — Bastal     Bastal 

Nevertheless  do  not  let  us  imagine  that  he  was  a  com- 
mon pusher.  He  was  not.  He  knew  as  well  as  Egbert 
what  disillusion  meant.  Perhaps  in  his  soul  he  had  the 
same  estimation  of  success.  But  he  had  a  certain  acrid 
courage,  and  a  certain  will-to-power.    In  his  own  small 


20  ENGLAND,  MY  ENGLAND 

circle  he  would  emanate  power,  the  single  power  of  his 
own  blind  self.  With  all  his  spoiling  of  his  children,  he 
was  still  the  father  of  the  old  English  type.  He  was  too 
wise  to  make  laws  and  to  domineer  in  the  abstract.  But 
he  had  kept,  and  all  honour  to  him,  a  certain  primitive 
dominion  over  the  souls  of  his  children,  the  old,  almost 
magic  prestige  of  paternity.  There  it  was,  still  burning 
in  him,  the  old  smoky  torch  of  paternal  godhead. 

And  in  the  sacred  glare  of  this  torch  his  children  had 
been  brought  up.  He  had  given  the  girls  every  liberty,  at 
last.  But  he  had  never  really  let  them  go  beyond  his 
power.  And  they,  venturing  out  into  the  hard  white  light 
of  our  fatherless  world,  learned  to  see  with  the  eyes  of 
the  world.  They  learned  to  criticise  their  father,  even, 
from  some  effulgence  of  worldly  white  light,  to  see  him  as 
inferior.  But  this  was  all  very  well  in  the  head.  The 
moment  they  forgot  their  tricks  of  criticism,  the  old  red 
glow  of  his  authority  came  over  them  again.  He  was 
not  to  be  quenched. 

Let  the  psychoanalysts  talk  about  father  complex.  It 
is  just  a  word  invented.  Here  was  a  man  who  had  kept 
alive  the  old  red  flame  of  fatherhood,  fatherhood  that 
had  even  the  right  to  sacrifice  the  child  to  God,  like  Isaac. 
Fatherhood  that  had  life-and-death  authority  over  the 
children:  a  great  natural  power.  And  till  his  children 
could  be  brought  under  some  other  great  authority  as 
girls;  or  could  arrive  at  manhood  and  become  them- 
selves centres  of  the  same  power,  continuing  the  same 
male  mystery  as  men;  until  such  time,  willynilly,  Godfrey 
Marshall  would  keep  his  children. 

It  had  seemed  as  if  he  might  lose  Winifred.    Winifred 


ENGLAND,  MY  ENGLAND  21 

had  adored  her  husband,  and  looked  up  to  him  as  to  some- 
thing wonderful.  Perhaps  she  had  expected  in  him  an- 
other great  authority,  a  male  authority  greater,  finer  than 
her  father's.  For  having  once  known  the  glow  of  male 
power,  she  would  not  easily  turn  to  the  cold  white  light 
of  feminine  independence.  She  would  hunger,  hunger  all 
her  life  for  the  warmth  and  shelter  of  true  male  strength. 

And  hunger  she  might,  for  Egbert's  power  lay  in  the 
abnegation  of  power.  He  was  himself  the  living  negative 
of  power.  Even  of  responsibility.  For  the  negation  of 
power  at  last  means  the  negation  of  responsibility.  As 
far  as  these  things  went,  he  would  confine  himself  to  him- 
self. He  would  try  to  confine  his  own  influence  even  to 
himself.  He  would  try  as  far  as  possible  to  abstain  from 
influencing  his  children  by  assuming  any  responsibility 
for  them.  "A  little  child  shall  lead  them—"  His  child 
should  lead,  then.  He  would  try  not  to  make  it  go  in  any 
direction  whatever.  He  would  abstain  from  influencing 
it — ^Liberty! — 

Poor  Winifred  was  like  a  fish  out  of  water  in  this 
liberty,  gasping  for  the  denser  element  which  should  con- 
tain her.  Till  her  child  came.  And  then  she  knew  that 
she  must  be  responsible  for  it,  that  she  must  have  author- 
ity over  it. 

But  here  Egbert  silently  and  negatively  stepped  in. 
Silently,  negatively,  but  fatally  he  neutralised  her  author- 
ity over  her  children. 

There  was  a  third  little  girl  born.  And  after  this  Wini- 
fred wanted  no  more  children.  Her  soul  was  turning  to 
salt. 

So,  she  had  charge  of  the  children,  they  were  her  respon- 


22  ENGLAND,  MY  ENGLAND 

sibility.  The  money  for  them  had  come  from  her  father. 
She  would  do  her  very  best  for  them,  and  have  command 
over  their  life  and  death. — But  no!  Egbert  would  not 
take  the  responsibility.  He  would  not  even  provide  the 
money.  But  he  would  not  let  her  have  her  way.  Her 
dark,  silent,  passionate  authority  he  would  not  allow.  It 
was  a  battle  between  them,  the  battle  between  liberty  and 
the  old  blood-power.  And  of  course  he  won.  The  little 
girls  loved  him  and  adored  him.  "Daddy!  Daddy!'' 
They  could  do  as  they  liked  with  him.  Their  mother 
would  have  ruled  them.  She  would  have  ruled  them  pas- 
sionately, with  indulgence,  with  the  old  dark  magic  of 
parental  authority,  something  looming  and  unquestioned 
and  after  all  divine:  if  we  believe  in  divine  authority. 
The  Marshalls  did,  being  Catholic. 

And  Egbert,  he  turned  her  old  dark.  Catholic  blood- 
authority  into  a  sort  of  tyranny.  He  would  not  leave  her 
her  children.  He  stole  them  from  her,  and  yet  without 
assuming  responsibility  for  them.  He  stole  them  from 
her,  in  emotion  and  spirit,  and  left  her  only  to  command 
their  behaviour.  A  thankless  lot  for  a  mother.  And  her 
children  adored  him,  adored  him,  little  knowing  the  empty 
bitterness  they  were  preparing  for  themselves  when  they 
too  grew  up  to  have  husbands:  husbands  such  as  Egbert, 
adorable  and  null. 

Joyce,  the  eldest,  was  still  his  favourite.  She  was  now 
a  quicksilver  little  thing  of  six  years  old.  Barbara,  the 
youngest,  was  a  toddler  of  two  years.  They  spent  most 
of  their  time  down  at  Crockham,  because  he  wanted  to  be 
there.  And  even  Winifred  loved  the  place  really.  But 
now,  in  her  frustrated  and  blinded  state,  it  was  full  of 


ENGLAND,  MY  ENGLAND  23 

menace  for  her  children.  The  adders,  the  poison-berries, 
the  brook,  the  marsh,  the  water  that  might  not  be  pure — 
one  thing  and  another.  From  mother  and  nurse  it  was  a 
guerilla  gunfire  of  commands,  and  blithe,  quicksilver  dis- 
obedience from  the  three  blonde,  never-still  little  girls. 
Behind  the  girls  was  the  father,  against  mother  and  nurse. 
And  so  it  was. 

"If  you  don't  come  quick,  nurse,  I  shall  run  out  there 
to  where  there  are  snakes." 

"Joyce,  you  must  be  patient.  I'm  just  changing  Anna- 
bel." 

There  you  are.  There  it  was:  always  the  same.  Work- 
ing away  on  the  common  across  the  brook  he  heard  it. 
And  he  worked  on,  just  the  same. 

Suddenly  he  heard  a  shriek,  and  he  flung  the  spade 
from  him  and  started  for  the  bridge,  looking  up  like  a 
startled  deer. — ^Ah,  there  was  Winifred — ^Joyce  had  hurt 
herself.    He  went  on  up  the  garden. 

"What  is  it?" 

The  child  was  still  screaming — ^now  it  was — "Daddy  I 
Daddy  I    Oh — oh  Daddy!"    And  the  mother  was  saying: 

"Don't  be  frightened,  darling.    Let  mother  look." 

But  the  child  only  cried: 

"Oh  Daddy,  Daddy,  Daddy  I " 

She  was  terrified  by  the  sight  of  the  blood  running 
from  her  own  knee. — ^Winifred  crouched  down,  with  her 
child  of  six  in  her  lap,  to  examine  the  knee.  Egbert  bent 
over  also. 

"Don't  make  such  a  noise,  Joyce,"  he  said  irritably. 
"How  did  she  do  it?" 

"She  fell  on  that  sickle  thing  which  you  left  lying  about 


24  ENGLAND,  MY  ENGLAND 

after  cutting  the  grass,"  said  Winifred,  looking  into  his 
face  with  bitter  accusation  as  he  bent  near. 

He  had  taken  his  handkerchief  and  tied  it  round  the 
knee.  Then  he  lifted  the  still  sobbing  child  in  his  arms, 
and  carried  her  into  the  house  and  upstairs  to  her  bed. 
In  his  arms  she  became  quiet.  But  his  heart  was  burning 
with  pain  and  with  guilt.  He  had  left  the  sickle  there 
lying  on  the  edge  of  the  grass,  and  so  his  first-born  child 
whom  he  loved  so  dearly  had  come  to  hurt.  But  then  it 
was  an  accident — it  was  an  accident.  Why  should  he  feel 
guilty —  It  would  probably  be  nothing,  better  in  two  or 
three  days.  Why  take  it  to  heart,  why  worry?  He  put 
it  aside. 

The  child  lay  on  the  bed  in  her  little  summer  frock,  her 
face  very  white  now  after  the  shock.  Nurse  had  come 
carrying  the  youngest  child:  and  little  Annabel  stood  hold- 
ing her  skirt.  Winifred,  terribly  serious  and  wooden- 
seeming,  was  bending  over  the  knee,  from  which  she  had 
taken  his  blood-soaked  handkerchief.  Egbert  bent  for- 
ward too,  keeping  more  sang  jroid  in  his  face  than  in  his 
heart.  Winifred  went  all  of  a  lump  of  seriousness,  so  he 
had  to  keep  some  reserve.  The  child  moaned  and  whim- 
pered. 

The  knee  was  still  bleeding  profusely — ^it  was  a  deep 
cut  right  in  the  joint. 

"You'd  better  go  for  the  doctor,  Egbert,"  said  Winifred 
bitterly. 

"Oh  no  I    Oh  no!"  cried  Joyce  in  a  panic. 

"Joyce,  my  darling,  don't  cry ! "  said  Winifred,  suddenly 
catching  the  little  girl  to  her  breast  in  a  strange  tragic 
anguish,  the  Mater  Dolor ata.    Even  the  child  was  fright- 


ENGLAND,  MY  ENGLAND  25 

ened  into  silence.  Egbert  looked  at  the  tragic  figure  of 
his  wife  with  the  child  at  her  breast,  and  turned  away. 
Only  Annabel  started  suddenly  to  cry:  "Joycey,  Joycey, 
don't  have  your  leg  bleeding!" 

Egbert  rode  four  miles  to  the  village  for  the  doctor. 
He  could  not  help  feeling  that  Winifred  was  laying  it  on 
rather.  Surely  the  knee  itself  wasn't  hurt  I  Surely  not. 
It  was  only  a  surface  cut. 

The  doctor  was  out.  Egbert  left  the  message  and  came 
cycling  swiftly  home,  his  heart  pinched  with  anxiety.  He 
dropped  sweating  off  his  bicycle  and  went  into  the  house, 
looking  rather  small,  like  a  man  who  is  at  fault.  Winifred 
was  upstairs  sitting  by  Joyce,  who  was  looking  pale  and 
important  in  bed,  and  was  eating  some  tapioca  pudding. 
The  pale,  small,  scared  face  of  his  child  went  to  Egbert's 
heart. 

"Doctor  Wing  was  out.  He'll  be  here  about  half-past 
two,"  said  Egbert. 

"I  don't  want  him  to  come,"  whimpered  Joyce. 

"Joyce  dear,  you  must  be  patient  and  quiet,"  said 
Winifred.  "He  won't  hurt  you.  But  he  will  tell  us  what 
to  do  to  make  your  knee  better  quickly.  That  is  why 
he  must  come." 

Winifred  always  explained  carefully  to  her  little  girls: 
and  it  always  took  the  words  off  their  lips  for  the  moment. 

"Does  it  bleed  yet?"  said  Egbert. 

Winifred  moved  the  bedclothes  carefully  aside. 

"I  think  not,"  she  said. 

Egbert  stooped  also  to  look. 

"No,  it  doesn't,"  he  said.  Then  he  stood  up  with  a 
relieved  look  on  his  face.    He  turned  to  the  child. 


26  ENGLAND,  MY  ENGLAND 

"Eat  your  pudding,  Joyce,"  he  said.  "It  won't  be  any- 
thing.   You've  only  got  to  keep  still  for  a  few  days." 

"You  haven't  had  your  dinner,  have  you,  Daddy?" 

"Not  yet." 

"Nurse  will  give  it  to  you,"  said  Winifred. 

"You'll  be  all  right,  Joyce,"  he  said,  smiling  to  the 
child  and  pushing  the  blonde  hair  aside  off  her  brow.  She 
smiled  back  winsomeb^  into  his  face. 

He  went  downstairs  and  ate  his  meal  alone.  Nurse 
served  him.  She  liked  waiting  on  him.  All  women  liked 
him  and  liked  to  do  things  for  him. 

The  doctor  came — a  fat  country  practitioner,  pleasant 
and  kind. 

"What,  little  girl,  been  tumbling  down,  have  you? 
There's  a  thing  to  be  doing,  for  a  smart  little  lady  like 
you!  What!  And  cutting  your  knee!  Tut-tut-tut! 
That  wasn't  clever  of  you,  now  was  it?  Never  mind, 
never  mind,  soon  be  better.  Let  us  look  at  it.  Won't 
hurt  you.  Not  the  least  in  life.  Bring  a  bowl  with  a 
little  warm  water,  nurse.  Soon  have  it  all  right  again, 
soon  have  it  all  right." 

Joyce  smiled  at  him  with  a  pale  smile  of  faint  supe- 
riority. This  was  not  the  way  in  which  she  was  used  to 
being  talked  to. 

He  bent  down  carefully  looking  at  the  little,  thin, 
wounded  knee  of  the  child.    Egbert  bent  over  him. 

"Oh  dear,  oh  dear!  Quite  a  deep  little  cut.  Nasty 
little  cut.  Nasty  little  cut.  But  never  mind.  Never 
mind,  little  lady.  We'll  soon  have  it  better.  Soon  have 
it  better,  little  lady.    What's  your  name?" 

"My  name  is  Joyce,"  said  the  child  distinctly. 


ENGLAND,  MY  ENGLAND  27 

"Oh  really!"  he  replied.  "Oh  really  I  Well  that's  a 
fine  name  too,  in  my  opinion.  Joyce,  eh? — And  how  old 
might  Miss  Joyce  be?    Can  she  tell  me  that?" 

"I'm  six,"  said  the  child,  slightly  amused  and  very  con- 
descending. 

"Six  I  There  now.  Add  up  and  count  as  far  as  six, 
can  you?  Well  that's  a  clever  little  girl,  a  clever  little 
girl.  And  if  she  has  to  drink  a  spoonful  of  medicine,  she 
won't  make  a  murmur,  I'll  be  bound.  Not  like  some  little 
girls.    What?    Eh?" 

"I  take  it  if  mother  wishes  me  to,"  said  Joyce. 

"Ah,  there  now!  That's  the  style!  That's  what  I  like 
to  hear  from  a  little  lady  in  bed  because  she's  cut  her 
knee.    That's  the  style—" 

The  comfortable  and  prolix  doctor  dressed  and  band- 
aged the  knee  and  recommended  bed  and  a  light  diet  for 
the  little  lady.  He  thought  a  week  or  a  fortnight  would 
put  it  right.  No  bones  or  ligatures  damaged — fortunately. 
Only  a  flesh  cut.    He  would  come  again  in  a  day  or  two. 

So  Joyce  was  reassured  and  stayed  in  bed  and  had  all 
her  toys  up.  Her  father  often  played  with  her.  The 
doctor  came  the  third  day.  He  was  fairly  pleased  with 
the  knee.  It  was  healing.  It  was  healing — yes — yes. 
I  et  the  child  continue  in  bed.  He  came  again  after  a  day 
or  two.  Winifred  was  a  trifle  uneasy.  The  wound  seemed 
to  be  healing  on  the  top,  but  it  hurt  the  child  too  much. 
It  didn't  look  quite  right.    She  said  so  to  Egbert. 

"Egbert,  I'm  sure  Joyce's  knee  isn't  healing  properly." 

"I  think  it  is,"  he  said.    "I  think  it's  all  right." 

"I'd  rather  Doctor  Wing  came  again — ^I  don't  feel  sat- 
isfied." 


28  ENGLAND,  MY  ENGLAND 

"Aren't  you  trying  to  imagine  it  worse  than  it  really 
is?" 

"You  would  say  so,  of  course.  But  I  shall  write  a  post- 
card to  Doctor  Wing  now." 

The  doctor  came  next  day.  He  examined  the  knee. 
Yes,  there  was  inflammation-  Yes,  there  might  be  a  little 
septic  poisoning — there  might.  There  might.  Was  the 
child  feverish? 

So  a  fortnight  passed  by,  and  the  child  was  feverish, 
and  the  knee  was  more  inflamed  and  grew  worse  and  was 
painful,  painful.  She  cried  in  the  night,  and  her  mother 
had  to  sit  up  with  her.  Egbert  still  insisted  it  was  noth- 
ing really — ^it  would  pass.    But  in  his  heart  he  was  anxious. 

Winifred  wrote  again  to  her  father.  On  Saturday  the 
elderly  man  appeared.  And  no  sooner  did  Winifred  see 
the  thick,  rather  short  figure  in  its  grey  suit  than  a  great 
yearning  came  over  her. 

"Father,  I'm  not  satisfied  with  Joyce.  I'm  not  satis- 
fied with  Doctor  Wing." 

"Well,  Winnie  dear,  if  you're  not  satisfied  we  must 
have  further  advice,  that  is  all." 

The  sturdy,  powerful  elderly  man  went  upstairs,  his 
voice  sounding  rather  grating  through  the  house,  as  if  it 
cut  upon  the  tense  atmosphere. 

"How  are  you,  Joyce  darling?"  he  said  to  the  child. 
"Does  your  knee  hurt  you?    Does  it  hurt  you,  dear?" 

"It  does  sometimes." — ^The  child  was  shy  of  him,  cold 
towards  him. 

"Well  dear,  I'm  sorry  for  that.  I  hope  you  try  to  bear 
it,  and  not  trouble  mother  too  much." 


ENGLAND,  MY  ENGLAND  29 

There  was  no  answer.  He  looked  at  the  knee.  It  was 
red  and  stiff. 

"Of  course,"  he  said,  "I  think  we  must  have  another 
doctor's  opinion.  And  if  we're  going  to  have  it,  we  had 
better  have  it  at  once.  Egbert,  do  you  think  you  might 
cycle  in  to  Bingham  for  Doctor  Wayne?  I  found  him 
very  satisfactory  for  Winnie's  mother." 

"I  can  go  if  you  think  it  necessary,"  said  Egbert. 

"Certainly  I  think  it  necessary.  Even  if  there  is  noth- 
ing, we  can  have  peace  of  mind.  Certainly  I  think  it 
necessary.  I  should  like  Doctor  Wayne  to  come  this 
evening  if  possible." 

So  Egbert  set  off  on  his  bicycle  through  the  wind,  like 
a  boy  sent  on  an  errand,  leaving  his  father-in-law  a  pillar 
of  assurance,  with  Winifred. 

Doctor  Wayne  came,  and  looked  grave.  Yes,  the  knee 
was  certainly  taking  the  wrong  way.  The  child  might  be 
lame  for  life. 

Up  went  the  fire  of  fear  and  anger  in  every  heart. 
Doctor  Wayne  came  again  the  next  day  for  a  proper  ex- 
amination. And  yes,  the  knee  had  really  taken  bad  ways. 
It  should  be  X-rayed.    It  was  very  important. 

Godfrey  Marshall  walked  up  and  down  the  lane  with 
the  doctor,  beside  the  standing  motor-car:  up  and  down, 
up  and  down  in  one  of  those  consultations  of  which  he 
had  had  so  many  in  his  life. 

As  a  result  he  came  indoors  to  Winifred. 

*Well,  Winnie  dear,  the  best  thing  to  do  is  to  take 
Joyce  up  to  London,  to  a  nursing  home  where  she  can 
have  proper  treatment.  Of  course  this  knee  has  been 
allowed  to  go  wrong.    And  apparently  there  is  a  risk  that 


30  ENGLAND,  MY  ENGLAND 

the  child  may  even  lose  her  leg.  What  do  you  think,  dear? 
You  agree  to  our  taking  her  up  to  town  and  putting  her 
under  the  best  care?'' 

"Oh  father,  you  know  I  would  do  anything  on  earth 
for  her." 

"I  know  you  would,  Winnie  darling.  The  pity  is  that 
there  has  been  this  unfortunate  delay  already.  I  can't 
think  what  Doctor  Wing  was  doing.  Apparently  the  child 
is  in  danger  of  losing  her  leg.  Well  then,  if  you  will  have 
everything  ready,  we  will  take  her  up  to  town  to-morrow. 
I  will  order  the  large  car  from  Denley's  to  be  here  at  ten. 
Egbert,  will  you  take  a  telegram  at  once  to  Doctor  Jack- 
son? It  is  a  small  nursing  home  for  children  and  for  sur- 
gical cases,  not  far  from  Baker  Street.  I'm  sure  Joyce 
will  be  all  right  there." 

"Oh  father,  can't  I  nurse  her  myself  I" 

"Well,  darling,  if  she  is  to  have  proper  treatment,  she 
had  best  be  in  a  home.  The  X-ray  treatment,  and  the 
electric  treatment,  and  whatever  is  necessary." 

"It  will  cost  a  great  deal — "  said  Winifred. 

"We  can't  think  of  cost,  if  the  child's  leg  is  in  danger — 
or  even  her  life.  No  use  speaking  of  cost,"  said  the  elder 
man  impatiently. 

And  so  it  was.  Poor  Joyce,  stretched  out  on  a  bed  in 
the  big  closed  motor-car — the  mother  sitting  by  her  head, 
the  grandfather  in  his  short  grey  beard  and  a  bowler  hat, 
sitting  by  her  feet,  thick  and  implacable  in  his  responsi- 
bility,— they  rolled  slowly  away  from  Crockham,  and 
from  Egbert  who  stood  there  bareheaded  and  a  little  igno- 
minious, left  behind.    He  was  to  shut  up  the  house  and 


ENGLAND,  MY  ENGLAND  31 

bring  the  rest  of  the  family  back  to  town,  by  train,  the 
next  day. 

Followed  a  dark  and  bitter  time.  The  poor  child.  The 
poor,  poor  child,  how  she  suffered,  an  agony  and  a  long 
crucifixion  in  that  nursing  home.  It  was  a  bitter  six  weeks 
which  changed  the  soul  of  Winifred  for  ever.  As  she  sat 
by  the  bed  of  her  poor,  tortured  little  child,  tortured  with 
the  agony  of  the  knee  and  the  still  worse  agony  of  these 
diabolic,  but  perhaps  necessary  modern  treatments,  she 
felt  her  heart  killed  and  going  cold  in  her  breast.  Her 
little  Joyce,  her  frail,  brave,  wonderful  little  Joyce,  frail 
and  small  and  pale  as  a  white  flower  1  Ah,  how  had  she, 
Winifred,  dared  to  be  so  wicked,  so  wicked,  so  careless, 
so  sensual ! 

"Let  my  heart  die  I  Let  my  woman's  heart  of  flesh  die ! 
Saviour,  let  my  heart  die.  And  save  my  child.  Let  my 
heart  die  from  the  world  and  from  the  flesh.  Oh,  destroy 
my  heart  that  is  so  wayward.  Let  my  heart  of  pricle  die. 
Let  my  heart  die." 

'  So  she  prayed  beside  the  bed  of  her  child.  And  like  the 
Mother  with  the  seven  swords  in  her  breast,  slowly  her 
heart  of  pride  and  passion  died  in  her  breast,  bleeding 
away.  Slowly  it  died,  bleeding  away,  and  she  turned 
to  the  Church  for  comfort,  to  Jesus,  to  the  Mother  of  God, 
but  most  of  all,  to  that  great  and  enduring  institution,  the 
Roman  Catholic  Church.  She  withdrew  into  the  shadow 
of  the  Church.  She  was  a  mother  with  three  children. 
But  in  her  soul  she  died,  her  heart  of  pride  and  passion 
and  desire  bled  to  death,  her  soul  belonged  to  her  church, 
her  body  belonged  to  her  duty  as  a  mother. 

Her  duty  as  a  wife  did  not  enter.    As  a  wife  she  had  no 


32  ENGLAND,  MY  ENGLAND 

sense  of  duty:  only  a  certain  bitterness  towards  the  man 
with  whom  she  had  known  such  sensuality  and  distraction. 
She  was  purely  the  Mater  Dolorata.  To  the  man  she  was 
closed  as  a  tomb. 

Egbert  came  to  see  his  child.  But  Winifred  seemed  to 
be  always  seated  there,  like  the  tomb  of  his  manhood  and 
his  fatherhood.  Poor  Winifred:  she  was  still  young,  still 
strong  and  ruddy  and  beautiful  like  a  ruddy  hard  flower 
of  the  field.  Strange — ^her  ruddy,  healthy  face,  so  sombre, 
and  her  strong,  heavy,  full-blooded  body,  so  still.  She, 
a  nun!  Never.  And  yet  the  gates  of  her  heart  and  soul 
had  shut  in  his  face  with  a  slow,  resonant  clang,  shutting 
him  out  for  ever.  There  was  no  need  for  her  to  go  into 
a  convent.    Her  will  had  done  it. 

And  between  this  young  mother  and  this  young  father 
lay  the  crippled  child,  like  a  bit  of  pale  silk  floss  on  the 
pillow,  and  a  little  white  pain-quenched  face.  He  could 
not  bear  it.  He  just  could  not  bear  it.  He  turned  aside. 
There  was  nothing  to  do  but  to  turn  aside.  He  turned 
aside,  and  went  hither  and  thither,  desultory.  He  was  still 
attractive  and  desirable.  But  there  was  a  little  frown 
between  his  brow  as  if  he  had  been  cleft  there  with  a 
hatchet:  cleft  right  in,  for  ever,  and  that  was  the  stigma. 

The  child's  leg  was  saved:  but  the  knee  was  locked  stiff. 
The  fear  now  was  lest  the  lower  leg  should  wither,  or 
cease  to  grow.  There  must  be  long-continued  massage  and 
treatment,  daily  treatment,  even  when  the  child  left  the 
nursing  home.  And  the  whole  of  the  expense  was  borne 
by  the  grandfather. 

Egbert  now  had  no  real  home.  Winifred  with  the  chil- 
dren and  nurse  was  tied  to  the  little  flat  in  London.    He 


ENGLAND,  MY  ENGLAND  33 

could  not  live  there:  he  could  not  contain  himself.  The 
cottage  was  shut-up — or  lent  to  friends.  He  went  down 
sometimes  to  work  in  his  garden  and  keep  the  place  in 
order.  Then  with  the  empty  house  around  him  at  nigljt, 
all  the  empty  rooms,  he  felt  his  heart  go  wicked.  The 
sense  of  frustration  and  futility,  like  some  slow,  torpid 
snake,  slowly  bit  right  through  his  heart.  Futility,  futility, 
futility:  the  horrible  marsh-poison  went  through  his  veins 
;and  killed  him. 

As  he  worked  in  the  garden  in  the  silence  of  day  he 
would  listen  for  a  sound.  No  sound.  No  sound  of  Wini- 
fred from  the  dark  inside  of  the  cottage:  no  sound  of 
children's  voices  from  the  air,  from  the  common,  from  the 
near  distance.  No  sound,  nothing  but  the  old  dark  marsh- 
venomous  atmosphere  of  the  place.  So  he  worked  spas- 
modically through  the  day,  and  at  night  made  a  fire  and 
cooked  some  food,  alone. 

He  was  alone.  He  himself  cleaned  the  cottage  and  made 
his  bed.  But  his  mending  he  did  not  do.  His  shirts  were 
slit  on  the  shoulders,  when  he  had  been  working,  and  the 
white  flesh  showed  through.  He  would  feel  the  air  and  the 
spots  of  rain  on  his  exposed  flesh.  And  he  would  look  again 
across  the  common,  where  the  dark,  tufted  gorse  was 
dying  to  seed,  and  the  bits  of  cat-heather  were  coming  pink 
in  tufts,  like  a  sprinkling  of  sacrificial  blood. 

His  heart  went  back  to  the  savage  old  spirit  of  the 
place:  the  desire  for  old  gods,  old,  lost  passions,  the  pas- 
sion of  the  cold-blooded,  darting  snakes  that  hissed  and 
shot  away  from  him,  the  mystery  of  blood-sacrifices,  all 
the  lost,  intense  sensations  of  the  primeval  people  of  the 
place,  whose  passions  seethed  in  the  air  still,  from  those 


34  ENGLAND,  MY  ENGLAND 

long  days  before  the  Romans  came.  The  seethe  of  a  lost, 
dark  passion  in  the  air.     The  presence  of  unseen  snakes. 

A  queer,  baffled,  half-wicked  look  came  on  his  face.  He 
could  not  stay  long  at  the  cottage.  Suddenly  he  must 
swing  on  to  his  bicycle  and  go — anywhere.  Anywhere, 
away  from  the  place.  He  would  stay  a  few  days  with  his 
mother  in  the  old  home.  His  mother  adored  him  and 
grieved  as  a  mother  would.  But  the  little,  baffled,  half- 
wicked  smile  curled  on  his  face,  and  he  swung  away  from 
his  mother's  solicitude  as  from  everything  else. 

Always  moving  on — from  place  to  place,  friend  to 
friend:  and  always  swinging  away  from  sympathy.  As 
soon  as  sympathy,  like  a  soft  hand,  was  reached  out  to 
touch  him,  away  he  swerved,  instinctively,  as  a  harmless 
snake  swerves  and  swerves  and  swerves  away  from  an  out- 
stretched hand.  Away  he  must  go.  And  periodically  he 
went  back  to  Winifred. 

He  was  terrible  to  her  now,  like  a  temptation.  She  had 
devoted  herself  to  her  children  and  her  church.  Joyce 
was  once  more  on  her  feet;  but,  alas!  lame,  with  iron  sup- 
ports to  her  leg,  and  a  little  crutch.  It  was  strange  how 
she  had  grown  into  a  long,  pallid,  wild  little  thing.  Strange 
that  the  pain  had  not  made  her  soft  and  docile,  but  had 
brought  out  a  wild,  almost  menad  temper  in  the  child.  She 
was  seven,  and  long  and  white  and  thin,  but  by  no  means 
subdued.  Her  blonde  hair  was  darkening.  She  still  had 
long  sufferings  to  face,  and,  in  her  own  childish  conscious- 
ness, the  stigma  of  her  lameness  to  bear. 

And  she  bore  it.  An  almost  menad  courage  seemed  to 
possess  her,  as  if  she  were  a  long,  thin,  young  weapon  of 
life.    She  acknowledged  all  her  mother's  care.    She  would 


ENGLAND,  MY  ENGLAND  35 

stand  by  her  mother  for  ever.  But  some  of  her  father's 
fine-tempered  desperation  flashed  in  her. 

When  Egbert  saw  his  little  girl  limping  horribly — not 
only  limping  but  lurching  horribly  in  crippled,  childish 
way,  his  heart  again  hardened  with  chagrin,  like  steel  that 
is  tempered  again.  There  was  a  tacit  understanding  be- 
tween him  and  his  little  girl:  not  what  we  would  call  love, 
but  a  weapon-like  kinship.  There  was  a  tiny  touch  of 
irony  in  his  manner  towards  her,  contrasting  sharply  with 
Winifred's  heavy,  unleavened  solicitude  and  care.  The 
child  flickered  back  to  him  with  an  answering  little  smile 
of  irony  and  recklessness:  an  odd  flippancy  which  made 
Winifred  only  the  more  sombre  and  earnest. 

The  Marshalls  took  endless  thought  and  trouble  for  the 
child,  searching  out  every  means  to  save  her  limb  and  her 
active  freedom.  They  spared  no  effort  and  no  money, 
they  spared  no  strength  of  will.  With  all  their  slow, 
heavy  power  of  will  they  willed  that  Joyce  should  save  her 
liberty  of  movement,  should  win  back  her  wild,  free  grace. 
Even  if  it  took  a  long  time  to  recover,  it  should  be  re- 
covered. 

So  the  situation  stood.  And  Joyce  submitted,  week  after 
week,  month  after  month,  to  the  tyranny  and  pain  of  the 
treatment.  She  acknowledged  the  honorable  effort  on  her 
behalf.  But  her  flamy  reckless  spirit  was  her  father's. 
It  was  he  who  had  all  the  glamour  for  her.  He  and  she 
were  like  members  of  some  forbidden  secret  society  who 
know  one  another  but  may  not  recognize  one  another. 
Knowledge  they  had  in  common,  the  same  secret  of  life, 
the  father  and  the  child.  But  the  child  stayed  in  the  camp 
of  her  mother,  honourably,  and  the  father  wandered  out- 


36  ENGLAND,  MY  ENGLAND 

side  like  Ishmael,  only  coming  sometimes  to  sit  in  the  home 
for  an  hour  or  two,  an  evening  or  two  beside  the  camp  fire, 
like  Ishmael,  in  a  curious  silence  and  tension,  with  the 
mocking  answer  of  the  desert  speaking  out  of  his  silence, 
and  annulling  the  whole  convention  of  the  domestic  home. 

His  presence  was  almost  an  anguish  to  Winifred.  She 
prayed  against  it.  That  little  cleft  between  his  brow,  that 
flickering,  wicked  little  smile  that  seemed  to  haunt  his 
face,  and  above  all,  the  triumphant  loneliness,  the  Ishmael 
quality.  And  then  the  erectness  of  his  supple  body,  like 
a  symbol.  The  very  way  he  stood,  so  quiet,  so  insidious, 
like  an  erect,  supple  symbol  of  life,  the  living  body,  con- 
fronting her  downcast  soul,  was  torture  to  her.  He  was 
like  a  supple  living  idol  moving  before  her  eyes,  and  she 
felt  if  she  watched  him  she  was  damned. 

And  he  came  and  made  himself  at  home  in  her  little 
home.  When  he  was  there,  moving  in  his  own  quiet  way, 
she  felt  as  if  the  whole  great  law  of  sacrifice,  by  which  she 
had  elected  to  live,  were  annulled.  He  annulled  by  his 
very  presence  the  laws  of  her  life.  And  what  did  he  sub- 
stitute? Ah,  against  that  question  she  hardened  herself 
in  recoil. 

It  was  awful  to  her  to  have  to  have  him  about — moving 
about  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  speaking  in  his  tenor,  throaty 
voice  to  the  children.  Annabel  simply  adored  him,  and  he 
teased  the  little  girl.  The  baby  Barbara  was  not  sure  of 
him.  She  had  been  born  a  stranger  to  him.  But  even  the 
nurse,  when  she  saw  his  white  shoulder  of  flesh  through 
the  slits  of  his  torn  shirt,  thought  it  a  shame. 

Winifred  felt  it  was  only  another  weapon  of  his  against 
her. 


ENGLAND,  MY  ENGLAND  37 

"You  have  other  shirts — ^why  do  you  wear  that  old  one 
that  is  all  torn,  Egbert?"  she  said. 

"I  may  as  well  wear  it  out,"  he  said  subtly. 

He  knew  she  would  not  offer  to  mend  it  for  him.  She 
could  not.  And  no,  she  would  not.  Had  she  not  her  own 
gods  to  honour?  And  could  she  betray  them,  submitting 
to  his  Baal  and  Ashtaroth?  And  it  was  terrible  to  her, 
his  unsheathed  presence,  that  seemed  to  annul  her  and  her 
faith,  like  another  revelation.  Like  a  gleaming  idol  evoked 
against  her,  a.  vivid  life-idol  that  might  triumph. 

He  came  and  he  went — and  she  persisted.  And  then 
the  great  war  broke  out.  He  was  a  man  who  could  not  go 
to  the  dogs.  He  could  not  dissipate  himself.  He  was 
pure-bred  in  his  Englishness,  and  even  when  he  would 
have  liked  to  be  vicious,  he  could  not. 

So  when  the  war  broke  out  his  whole  instinct  was 
against  it:  against  war.  He  had  not  the  faintest  desire  to 
overcome  any  foreigners  or  to  help  in  their  death.  He  had 
no  conception  of  Imperial  England,  and  Rule  Britannia 
was  just  a  joke  to  him.  He  was  a  pure-blooded  English- 
man, perfect  in  his  race,  and  when  he  was  truly  himself 
he  could  no  more  have  been  aggressive  on  the  score  of  his 
Englishness  than  a  rose  can  be  aggressive  on  the  score  of 
his  rosiness. 

No,  he  had  no  desire  to  defy  Germany  and  to  exalt 
England.  The  distinction  between  German  and  English 
was  not  for  him  the  distinction  between  good  and  bad. 
It  was  the  distinction  between  blue  water-flowers  and  red 
or  white  bush-blossoms:  just  difference.  The  difference 
between  the  wild  boar  and  the  wild  bear.    And  a  man  was 


38  ENGLAND,  MY  ENGLAND 

good  or  bad  according  to  his  nature,  not  according  to  his 
nationality. 

Egbert  was  well-bred,  and  this  was  part  of  his  natural 
understanding.  It  was  merely  unnatural  to  him  to  hate  a 
nation  en  bloc.  Certain  individuals  he  disliked,  and  others 
he  liked,  and  the  mass  he  knew  nothing  about.  Certain 
deeds  he  disliked,  certain  deeds  seemed  natural  to  him,  and 
about  most  deeds  he  had  no  particular  feeling. 

He  had,  however,  the  one  deepest  pure-bred  instinct. 
He  recoiled  inevitably  from  having  his  feelings  dictated 
to  him  by  the  mass  feeling.  His  feelings  were  his  own, 
his  understanding  was  his  own,  and  he  would  never  go 
back  on  either,  willingly.  Shadl  a  man  become  inferior  to 
his  own  true  knowledge  and  self,  just  because  the  mob 
expects  it  of  him? 

What  Egbert  felt  subtly  and  without  question,  his 
father-in-law  felt  also,  in  a  rough,  more  combative  way. 
Different  as  the  two  men  were,  they  were  two  real  English- 
men, and  their  instincts  were  almost  the  same. 

And  Godfrey  Marshall  had  the  world  to  reckon  with. 
There  was  German  military  aggression,  and  the  English 
non-military  idea  of  liberty  and  the  "conquests  of  peace" 
— ^meaning  industrialism.  Even  if  the  choice  between  mil- 
itarism and  industrialism  were  a  choice  of  evils,  the  elderly 
man  asserted  his  choice  of  the  latter,  perforce.  He  whose 
soul  was  quick  with  the  instinct  of  power. 

Egbert  just  refused  to  reckon  with  the  world.  He  just 
refused  even  to  decide  between  German  militarism  and 
British  industrialism.  He  chose  neither.  As  for  atrocities, 
he  despised  the  people  who  committed  them,  as  inferior 
criminal  types.    There  was  nothing  national  about  crime. 


ENGLAND,  MY  ENGLAND  39 

And  yet,  war!  War!  Just  war!  Not  right  or  wrong, 
but  just  war  itself.  Should  he  join?  Should  he  give  him- 
self over  to  war?  The  question  was  in  his  mind  for  some 
weeks.  Not  because  he  thought  England  was  right  and 
Germany  wrong.  Probably  Germany  was  wrong,  but  he 
refused  to  make  a  choice.  Not  because  he  felt  inspired. 
No.     But  just — ^war. 

The  deterrent  was,  the  giving  himself  over  into  the 
power  of  other  men,  and  into  the  power  of  the  mob-spirit 
of  a  democratic  army.  Should  he  give  himself  over? 
Should  he  make  over  his  own  life  and  body  to  the  control 
of  something  which  he  knew  was  inferior,  in  spirit,  to  his 
own  self?  Should  he  commit  himself  into  the  power  of  an 
inferior  control?    Should  he?    Should  he  betray  himself? 

He  was  going  to  put  himself  into  the  power  of  his  in- 
feriors, and  he  knew  it.  He  was  going  to  subjugate  him- 
self. He  was  going  to  be  ordered  about  by  petty  canaille 
of  non-commissioned  officers — and  even  commissioned 
officers.  He  who  was  born  and  bred  free.  Should  he 
doit? 

He  went  to  his  wife,  to  speak  to  her. 

"Shall  I  join  up,  Winifred?'' 

She  was  silent.  Her  instinct  also  was  dead  against  it. 
And  yet  a  certain  profound  resentment  made  hei  answer: 

"You  have  three  children  dependent  on  you.  I  don't 
know  whether  you  have  thought  of  that." 

It  was  still  only  the  third  month  of  the  war,  and  the 
old  pre-war  ideas  were  still  alive. 

"Of  course.  But  it  won't  make  much  difference  to  them. 
I  shall  be  earning  a  shilling  a  day,  at  least." 


40  ENGLAND,  MY  ENGLAND 

"You'd  better  speak  to  father,  I  think,"  she  replied 
heavily. 

Egbert  went  to  his  father-in-law.  The  elderly  man's 
heart  was  full  of  resentment. 

"I  should  say,"  he  said  rather  sourly,  "it  is  the  best 
thing  you  could  do." 

Egbert  went  and  joined  up  immediately,  as  a  private 
soldier.    He  was  drafted  into  the  light  artillery. 

Winifred  now  had  a  new  duty  towards  him:  the  duty 
of  a  wife  towards  a  husband  who  is  himself  performing 
his  duty  towards  the  world.  She  loved  him  still.  She 
would  always  love  him,  as  far  as  earthly  love  went.  But 
it  was  duty  she  now  lived  by.  When  he  came  back  to  her 
in  khaki,  a  soldier,  she  submitted  to  him  as  a  wife.  It 
was  her  duty.  But  to  his  passion  she  could  never  again 
fully  submit.  Something  prevented  her,  for  ever:  even 
her  own  deepest  choice. 

He  went  back  again  to  camp.  It  did  not  suit  him  to  be 
a  modern  soldier.  In  the  thick,  gritty,  hideous  khaki  his 
subtle  physique  was  extinguished  as  if  he  had  been  killed. 
In  the  ugly  intimacy  of  the  camp  his  thoroughbred  sensi- 
bilities were  just  degraded.  But  he  had  chosen,  so  he 
accepted.  An  ugly  little  look  came  on  to  his  face,  of  a 
man  who  has  accepted  his  own  degradation. 

In  the  early  spring  Winifred  went  down  to  Crockham 
to  be  there  when  primroses  were  out,  and  the  tassels  hang- 
ing on  the  hazel-bushes.  She  felt  something  like  a  recon- 
ciliation towards  Egbert,  now  he  was  a  prisoner  in  camp 
most  of  his  days.  Joyce  was  wild  with  delight  at  seeing 
the  garden  and  the  common  again,  after  the  eight  or  nine 
months  of  London  and  misery.    She  was  still  lame.    She 


ENGLAND,  MY  ENGLAND  41 

still  had  the  irons  up  her  leg.  But  she  lurched  about  with 
a  wild,  crippled  agility. 

Egbert  came  for  a  week-end,  in  his  gritty,  thick,  sand- 
paper khaki  and  puttees  and  the  hideous  cap.  Nay,  he 
looked  terrible.  And  on  his  face  a  slightly  impure  look, 
a  little  sore  on  his  lip,  as  if  he  had  eaten  too  much  or 
drunk  too  much  or  let  his  blood  become  a  little  unclean. 
He  was  almost  uglily  healthy,  with  the  camp  life.  It  did 
not  suit  him. 

Winifred  waited  for  him  in  a  little  passion  of  duty  and 
sacrifice,  willing  to  serve  the  soldier,  if  not  the  man.  It 
only  made  him  feel  a  little  more  ugly  inside.  The  week- 
end was  torment  to  him:  the  memory  of  the  camp,  the 
knowledge  of  the  life  he  led  there;  even  the  sight  of  his 
own  legs  in  that  abhorrent  khaki.  He  felt  as  if  the  hideous 
cloth  went  into  his  blood  and  made  it  gritty  and  dirty. 
Then  Winifred  so  ready  to  serve  the  soldier,  when  she 
repudiated  the  man.  And  this  made  the  grit  worse  be- 
tween his  teeth.  And  the  children  running  around  playing 
and  calling  in  the  rather  mincing  fashion  of  children  who 
have  nurses  and  governesses  and  literature  in  the  family. 
And  Joyce  so  lame!  It  had  all  become  unreal  to  him, 
after  the  camp.  It  only  set  his  soul  on  edge.  He  left  at 
dawn  on  the  Monday  morning,  glad  to  get  back  to  the 
realness  and  vulgarity  of  the  camp. 

Winifred  would  never  meet  him  again  at  the  cottage— ^ 
only  in  London,  where  the  world  was  with  them.  But 
sometimes  he  came  alone  to  Crockham,  perhaps  when 
friends  were  staying  there.  And  then  he  would  work 
awhile  in  his  garden.  This  summer  still  it  would  flame 
with  blue  anchusas  and  big  red  poppies,  the  mulleins 


42  ENGLAND,  MY  ENGLAND 

would  sway  their  soft,  downy  erections  in  the  air:  he  loved 
mulleins:  and  the  honeysuckle  would  stream  out  scent  like 
memory,  when  the  owl  was  whooing.  Then  he  sat  by  the 
fire  with  the  friends  and  with  Winifred's  sisters,  and  they 
sang  the  folk-songs.  He  put  on  thin  civilian  clothes,  and 
his  charm  and  his  beauty  and  the  supple  dominancy  of 
his  body  glowed  out  again.    But  Winifred  was  not  there. 

At  the  end  of  the  summer  he  went  to  Flanders,  into 
action.  He  seemed  already  to  have  gone  out  of  life,  be- 
yond the  pale  of  life.  He  hardly  remembered  his  life  any 
more,  being  like  a  man  who  is  going  to  take  a  jump  from 
a  height,  and  is  only  looking  to  where  he  must  land. 

He  was  twice  slightly  wounded,  in  two  months.  But 
not  enough  to  put  him  off  duty  for  more  than  a  day  or  two. 
They  were  retiring  again,  holding  the  enemy  back.  He 
was  in  the  rear — three  machine-guns.  The  country  was 
all  pleasant,  war  had  not  yet  trampled  it.  Only  the  air 
seemed  shattered,  and  the  land  awaiting  death.  It  was  a: 
small,  unimportant  action  in  which  he  was  engaged. 

The  guns  were  stationed  on  a  little  bushy  hillock  just 
outside  a  village.  But  occasionally,  it  was  difficult  to  :ay 
from  which  direction  came  the  sharp  crackle  of  rifle-fire, 
and  beyond,  the  far-off  thud  of  cannon.  The  afteri  oon 
was  wintry  and  cold. 

A  lieutenant  stood  on  a  little  iron  platform  at  the  top  of 
the  ladders,  taking  the  sights  and  giving  the  aim,  calling 
in  a  high,  tense,  mechanical  voice.  Out  of  the  sky  came 
the  sharp  cry  of  the  directions,  then  the  warning  numbers, 
then  "Fire! "  The  shot  went,  the  piston  of  the  gun  sprang 
back,  there  was  a  sharp  explosion,  and  a  very  faint  film 
of  smoke  in  the  air.    Then  the  other  two  guns  fired,  and 


ENGLAND,  MY  ENGLAND  43 

there  was  a  lull.  The  officer  was  uncertain  of  the  enemy's 
position.  The  thick  clump  of  horse-chestnut  trees  below 
was  without  change.  Only  in  the  far  distance  the  sound 
of  heavy  firing  continued,  so  far  off  as  to  give  a  sense  of 
peace. 

The  gorse  bushes  on  either  hand  were  dark,  but  a  few 
sparks  of  flowers  showed  yellow.  He  noticed  them  almost 
unconsciously  as  he  waited,  in  the  lull.  He  was  in  his 
shirt-sleeves,  and  the  air  came  chill  on  his  arms.  Again 
his  shirt  was  slit  on  the  shoulders,  and  the  flesh  showed 
through.  He  was  dirty  and  unkempt.  But  his  face  was 
quiet.  So  many  things  go  out  of  consciousness  before  we 
come  to  the  end  of  consciousness. 

Before  him,  below,  was  the  highroad,  rimning  between 
high  banks  of  grass  and  gorse.  He  saw  the  whitish,  muddy 
tracks  and  deep  scores  in  the  road,  where  the  part  of  the 
regiment  had  retired.  Now  all  was  still.  Sounds  that 
came,  came  from  the  outside.  The  place  where  he  stood 
was  still  silent,  chill,  serene;  the  white  church  among  the 
trees  beyond  seemed  like  a  thought  only. 

He  moved  into  a  lightnir  g-like  mechanical  response  at 
the  sharp  cry  from  the  officer  overhead.  Mechanism,  the 
pure  mechanical  action  of  obedience  at  the  guns.  Pure 
mechanical  action  at  the  guns.  It  left  the  soul  unburdened, 
brooding  in  dark  nakedness.  In  the  end,  the  soul  is  alone, 
brooding  on  the  face  of  the  uncreated  flux,  as  a  bird  on 
a  dark  sea. 

Nothing  could  be  seen  but  the  road,  and  a  crucifix 
knocked  slanting  and  the  dark,  autumnal  fields  and  woods. 
There  appeared  three  horsemen  on  a  little  eminence,  very 


44  ENGLAND,  MY  ENGLAND 

small,  on  the  crest  of  a  ploughed  field.  They  were  our  own 
men.    Of  the  enemy,  nothing. 

The  lull  continued.  Then  suddenly  came  sharp  orders, 
and  a  new  direction  of  the  guns,  and  an  intense,  exciting 
Activity.  Yet  at  the  centre  the  soul  remained  dark  and 
aloof,  alone. 

But  even  so,  it  was  the  soul  that  heard  the  new  sound: 
the  new,  deep  "papp! "  of  a  gun  that  seemed  to  touch  right 
upon  the  soul.  He  kept  up  the  rapid  activity  at  the 
machine-gun,  sweating.  But  in  his  soul  was  the  echo  of 
the  new,  deep  sound,  deeper  than  life. 

And  in  confirmation  came  the  awful  faint  whistling  of  a 
shell,  advancing  almost  suddenly  into  a  piercing,  tearing 
shriek  that  would  tear  through  the  membrane  of  life.  He 
heard  it  in  his  ears,  but  he  heard  it  also  in  his  soul,  in 
tension.  There  was  relief  when  the  thing  had  swung  by 
and  struck,  away  beyond.  He  heard  the  hoarseness  of 
its  explosion,  and  the  voice  of  the  soldier  calling  to  the 
horses.  But  he  did  not  turn  round  to  look.  He  only 
noticed  a  twig  of  holly  with  red  berries  fall  like  a  gift  on 
to  the  road  below. 

Not  this  time,  not  this  time.  Whither  thou  goest  I  will 
go.  Did  he  say  it  to  the  shell,  or  to  whom?  Whither  thou 
goest  I  will  go.  Then,  the  faint  whistling  of  another  shell 
dawned,  and  his  blood  became  small  and  still  to  receive  it. 
It  drew  nearer,  like  some  horrible  blast  of  wind;  his  blood 
lost  consciousness.  But  in  the  second  of  suspension  he 
saw  the  heavy  shell  swoop  to  earth,  into  the  rocky  bushes 
on  the  right,  and  earth  and  stones  poured  up  into  the  sky. 
If  was  as  if  he  heard  no  sound.  The  earth  and  stones  and 
fragments  of  bush  fell  to  earth  again,  and  there  was  the 


ENGLAND,  MY  ENGLAND  45 

same  unchanging  peace.    The  Germans  had  got  the  aim. 

Would  they  move  now?  Would  they  retire?  Yes. 
The  officer  was  giving  the  last  lightning-rapid  orders  to 
fire  before  withdrawing.  A  shell  passed  unnoticed  in  the 
rapidity  of  action.  And  then,  into  the  silence,  into  the 
suspense  where  the  soul  brooded,  finally  crashed  a  noise 
and  a  darkness  and  a  moment^s  flaming  agony  and  horror. 
Ah,  he  had  seen  the  dark  bird  flying  towards  him,  flying 
home  this  time.  In  one  instant  life  and  eternity  went  up 
in  a  conflagration  of  agony,  then  there  was  a  weight  of 
darkness. 

When  faintly  something  began  to  struggle  in  the  dark- 
ness, a  consciousness  of  himself,  he  was  aware  of  a  great 
load  and  a  clanging  sound.  To  have  known  the  moment 
of  death!  And  to  be  forced,  before  dying,  to  review  it. 
So,  fate,  even  in  death. 

There  was  a  resounding  of  pain.  It  seemed  to  sound 
from  the  outside  of  his  consciousness:  like  a  loud  bell 
clanging  very  near.  Yet  he  knew  it  was  himself.  He  must 
associate  himself  with  it.  After  a  lapse  and  a  new  effort, 
he  identified  a  pain  in  his  head,  a  large  pain  that  clanged 
and  resounded.  So  far  he  could  identify  himself  with 
himself.    Then  there  was  a  lapse. 

After  a  time  he  seemed  to  wake  up  again,  and  waking, 
to  know  that  he  was  at  the  front,  and  that  he  was  killed. 
He  did  not  open  his  eyes.  Light  was  not  yet  his.  The 
clanging  pain  in  his  head  rang  out  the  rest  of  his  conscious- 
ness. So  he  lapsed  away  from  consciousness,  in  unutter- 
able sick  abandon  of  life. 

Bit  by  bit,  like  a  doom,  came  the  necessity  to  know. 
He  was  hit  in  the  head.    It  was  only  a  vague  surmise  at 


46  ENGLAND,  MY  ENGLAND 

first.  But  in  the  swinging  of  the  pendulum  of  pain,  swing- 
ing ever  nearer  and  nearer,  to  touch  him  into  an  agony 
of  consciousness  and  a  consciousness  of  agony,  gradually 
the  knowledge  emerged — ^he  must  be  hit  in  the  head — ^hit 
on  the  left  brow;  if  so,  there  would  be  blood — ^was  there 
blood? — could  he  feel  blood  in  his  left  eye?  Then  the 
clanging  seemed  to  burst  the  membrane  of  his  brain,  like 
death-madness. 

Was  there  blood  on  his  face?  Was  hot  blood  flowing? 
Or  was  it  dry  blood  congealing  down  his  cheek?  It  took 
him  hours  even  to  ask  the  question:  time  being  no  more 
than  an  agony  in  darkness,  without  measurement. 

A  long  time  after  he  had  opened  his  eyes  he  realised  he 
was  seeing  something — something,  something,  but  the 
effort  to  recall  what  was  too  great.    No,  no;   no  recall! 

Were  they  the  stars  in  the  dark  sky?  Was  it  possible 
it  was  stars  in  the  dark  sky?  Stars?  The  world?  Ah, 
no,  he  could  not  know  it!  Stars  and  the  world  were  gone 
for  him,  he  closed  his  eyes.  No  stars,  no  sky,  no  world. 
No,  no!  The  thick  darkness  of  blood  alone.  It  should 
be  one  great  lapse  into  the  thick  darkness  of  blood  in 
agony. 

Death,  oh  death!  The  world  all  blood,  and  the  blood 
all  writhing  with  death.  The  soul  like  the  tiniest  little 
light  out  on  a  dark  sea,  the  sea  of  blood.  And  the  light 
guttering,  beating,  pulsing  in  a  windless  storm,  wishing  it 
could  go  out,  yet  unable. 

There  had  been  life.  There  had  been  Winifred  and  his 
children.  But  the  frail  death-agony  effort  to  catch  at 
straws  of  memory,  straws  of  life  from  the  past,  brought  on 
too  great  a  nausea.    No,  no!     No  Winifred,  no  children. 


ENGLAND,  MY  ENGLAND  47 

No  world,  no  people.  Better  the  agony  of  dissolution 
ahead  than  the  nausea  of  the  effort  backwards.  Better 
the  terrible  work  should  go  forward,  the  dissolving  into  the 
black  sea  of  death,  in  the  extremity  of  dissolution,  than 
that  there  should  be  any  reaching  back  towards  life.  To 
forget!  To  forget!  Utterly,  utterly  to  forget,  in  the  great 
forgetting  of  death.  To  break  the  core  and  the  unit  of 
life,  and  to  lapse  out  on  the  great  darkness.  Only  that. 
To  break  the  clue,  and  mingle  and  commingle  with  the 
one  darkness,  without  afterwards  or  forwards.  Let  the 
black  sea  of  death  itself  solve  the  problem  of  futurity. 
Let  the  will  of  man  break  and  give  up. 

What  was  that?  A  light!  A  terrible  light!  Was  it 
figures?  Was  it  legs  of  a  horse  colossal — colossal  above 
him:  huge,  huge? 

The  Germans  heard  a  slight  noise,  and  started.  Then, 
in  the  glare  of  a  light-bomb,  by  the  side  of  the  heap  of 
earth  thrown  up  by  the  shell,  they  saw  the  dead  face. 


TICKETS,  PLEASE 


TICKETS,  PLEASE 

There  is  in  the  Midlands  a  single-line  tramway  system 
which  boldly  leaves  the  county  town  and  plunges  off  into 
the  black,  industrial  countryside,  up  hill  and  down  dale, 
through  the  long,  ugly  villages  of  workmen's  houses,  over 
canals  and  railways,  past  churches  perched  high  and  nobly 
over  the  smoke  and  shadows,  through  stark,  grimy,  cold 
little  market-places,  tilting  away  in  a  rush  past  cinemas 
and  shops  down  to  the  hollow  where  the  collieries  are,  then 
up  again,  past  a  little  rural  church,  under  the  ash  trees, 
on  in  a  rush  to  the  terminus,  the  last  little  ugly  place  of 
industry,  the  cold  little  town  that  shivers  on  the  edge  of 
the  wild,  gloomy  country  beyond.    There  the  green  and 
creamy  coloured  tram-car  seems  to  pause  and  purr  with 
curious  satisfaction.    But  in  a  few  minutes — the  clock  on 
the  turret  of  the  Cooperative  Wholesale  Society's  Shops 
gives  the  time — away  it  starts  once  more  on  the  adventure. 
Again  there  are  the  reckless  swoops  downhill,  bouncing  the 
loops:   again  the  chilly  wait  in  the  hill- top  market-place: 
again  the  breathless  slithering  round  the  precipitous  drop 
under  the  church:    again  the  patient  halts  at  the  loops, 
waiting  for  the  outcoming  car:  so  on  and  on,  for  two  long 
hours,  till  at  last  the  city  looms  beyond  the  fat  gas-works, 
the  narrow  factories  draw  near,  we  are  in  the  sordid  streets 
of  the  great  town,  once  more  we  sidle  to  a  standstill  at  our 
terminus,   abashed  by   the  great  crimson   and   cream- 
coloured  city  cars,  but  still  perky,  jaunty,  somewhat  dare- 
si 


52  TICKETS,  PLEASE 

devil,  green  as  a  jaunty  sprig  of  parsley  out  of  a  black 
colliery  garden. 

To  ride  on  these  cars  is  always  an  adventure.  Since  we 
are  in  war-time,  the  drivers  are  men  unfit  for  active  serv- 
ice: cripples  and  hunchbacks.  So  they  have  the  spirit  of 
the  devil  in  them.  The  ride  becomes  a  steeple-chase. 
Hurray!  we  have  leapt  in  a  clear  jump  over  the  canal 
bridges — now  for  the  four-lane  corner.  With  a  shriek  and 
a  trail  of  sparks  we  are  clear  again.  To  be  sure,  a  tram 
often  leaps  the  rails — but  what  matter  1  It  sits  in  a  ditch 
till  other  trams  come  to  haul  it  out.  It  is  quite  common 
for  a  car,  packed  with  one  solid  mass  of  living  people,  to 
come  to  a  dead  halt  in  the  midst  of  unbroken  blackness, 
the  heart  of  nowhere  on  a  dark  night,  and  for  the  driver 
and  the  girl  conductor  to  call,  "All  get  off — car's  on  fire!" 
Instead,  however,  of  rushing  out  in  a  panic,  the  passengers 
stolidly  reply:  "Get  on — get  on!  We're  not  coming  out. 
We're  stopping  where  we  are.  Push  on,  George."  So  till 
flames  actually  appear. 

The  reason  for  this  reluctance  to  dismount  is  that  the 
nights  are  howlingly  cold,  black,  and  windswept,  and  a 
car  is  a  haven  of  refuge.  From  village  to  village  the  min- 
ers travel,  for  a  change  of  cinema,  of  girl,  of  pub.  The 
trams  are  desperately  packed.  Who  is  going  to  risk  him- 
self in  the  black  gulf  outside,  to  wait  perhaps  an  hour  for 
another  tram,  then  to  see  the  forlorn  notice  "Depot  Only," 
because  there  is  something  wrong!  or  to  greet  a  unit  of 
three  bright  cars  all  so  tight  with  people  that  they  sail 
past  with  a  howl  of  derision.  Trams  that  pass  in  the 
night. 

This,  the  most  dangerous  tram-service  in  England,  as 


TICKETS,  PLEASE  S3 

the  authorities  themselves  declare,  with  pride,  is  entirely 
conducted  by  girls,  and  driven  by  rash  young  men,  a  little 
crippled,  or  by  delicate  young  men,  who  creep  forward  in 
terror.  The  girls  are  fearless  young  hussies.  In  their  ugly 
blue  uniform,  skirts  up  to  their  knees,  shapeless  old  peaked 
caps  on  their  heads,  they  have  all  the  sang-froid  of  an  old 
non-commissioned  officer.  With  a  tram  packed  with  howl- 
ing colliers,  roaring  hymns  downstairs  and  a  sort  of  an- 
tiphony  of  obscenities  upstairs,  the  lasses  are  perfectly  at 
their  ease.  They  pounce  on  the  youths  who  try  to  evade 
their  ticket-machine.  They  push  off  the  men  at  the  end 
of  their  distance.  They  are  not  going  to  be  done  in  the  eye 
— not  they.  They  fear  nobody — and  everybody  fears 
them. 

"Hello,  Annie  I" 

"Hello,  Ted!" 

"Oh,  mind  my  corn.  Miss  Stone.  It's  my  belief  youVe 
got  a  heart  of  stone,  for  you've  trod  on  it  again." 

"You  should  keep  it  in  your  pocket,"  replies  Miss  Stone, 
and  she  goes  sturdily  upstairs  in  her  high  boots. 

"Tickets,  please." 

She  is  peremptory,  suspicious,  and  ready  to  hit  first. 
She  can  hold  her  own  against  ten  thousand.  The  step  of 
that  tram-car  is  her  Thermopylae. 

Therefore,  there  is  a  certain  wild  romance  aboard  these 
cars — and  in  the  sturdy  bosom  of  Annie  herself.  The  time 
for  soft  romance  is  in  the  morning,  between  ten  o'clock  and 
one,  when  things  are  rather  slack:  that  is,  except  market- 
day  and  Saturday.  Thus  Annie  has  time  to  look  about 
her.  Then  she  often  hops  off  her  car  and  into  a  shop 
where  she  has  spied  something,  while  the  driver  chats  in 


54  TICKETS,  PLEASE 

the  main  road.  There  is  very  good  feeling  between  the 
girls  and  the  drivers.  Are  they  not  companions  in  peril, 
shipments  aboard  this  careering  vessel  of  a  tram-car,  for 
ever  rocking  on  the  waves  of  a  stormy  land. 

Then,  also,  during  the  easy  hours,  the  inspectors  are 
most  in  evidence.  For  some  reason,  everybody  employed 
in  this  tram-service  is  young:  there  are  no  grey  heads. 
It  would  not  do.  Therefore  the  inspectors  are  of  the 
right  age,  and  one,  the  chief,  is  also  good-looking.  See 
him  stand  on  a  wet,  gloomy  morning,  in  his  long  oil-skin, 
his  peaked  cap  well  down  over  his  eyes,  waiting  to  board  a 
car.  His  face  is  ruddy,  his  small  brown  moustache  is 
weathered,  he  has  a  faint  impudent  smile.  Fairly  tall  and 
agile,  even  in  his  waterproof,  he  springs  aboard  a  car  and 
greets  Annie. 

"Hello,  Annie  I    Keeping  the  wet  out?" 

"Trying  to."  ^ 

There  are  only  two  people  in  the  car.  Inspecting  is  soon 
over.  Then  for  a  long  and  impudent  chat  on  the  foot- 
board, a  good,  easy,  twelve-mile  chat. 

The  inspector's  name  is  John  Thomas  Raynor — ^always 
called  John  Thomas,  except  sometimes,  in  malice,  Coddy. 
His  face  sets  in  fury  when  he  is  addressed,  from  a  distance, 
with  this  abbreviation.  There  is  considerable  scandal 
about  John  Thomas  in  half  a  dozen  villages.  He  flirts 
with  the  girl  conductors  in  the  morning,  and  walks  out 
with  them  in  the  dark  night,  when  they  leave  their  tram- 
car  at  the  depot.  Of  course,  the  girls  quit  the  service  fre- 
quently. Then  he  flirts  and  walks  out  with  the  newcomer: 
always  providing  she  is  sufficiently  attractive,  and  that  she 
will  consent  to  walk.   It  is  remarkable,  however,  that  most 


TICKETS,  PLEASE  55 

of  the  girls  are  quite  comely^  they  are  all  young,  and  this 
roving  life  aboard  the  car  gives  them  a  sailor's  dash  and 
recklessness.  What  matter  how  they  behave  when  the 
ship  is  in  port.    To-morrow  they  will  be  aboard  again. 

Annie,  however,  was  something  of  a  Tartar,  and  her 
sharp  tongue  had  kept  John  Thomas  at  arm's  length  for 
many  months.  Perhaps,  therefore,  she  liked  him  all  the 
more:  for  he  always  came  up  smiling,  with  impudence. 
She  watched  him  vanquish  one  girl,  then  another.  She 
could  tell  by  the  movement  of  his  mouth  and  eyes,  when 
he  flirted  with  her  in  the  morning,  that  he  had  been  walk- 
ing out  with  this  lass,  or  the  other,  the  night  before.  A 
fine  cock-of-the-walk  he  was.  She  could  sum  him  up 
pretty  well. 

In  this  subtle  antagonism  they  knew  each  other  like  old 
friends,  they  were  as  shrewd  with  one  another  almost  as 
man  and  wife.  But  Annie  had  always  kept  him  sufficiently 
at  arm's  length.    Besides,  she  had  a  boy  of  her  own. 

The  Statutes  fair,  however,  came  in  November,  at  Best- 
wood.  It  happened  that  Annie  had  the  Monday  night,  off. 
It  was  a  drizzling  ugly  night,  yet  she  dressed  herself  up 
and  went  to  the  fair  ground.  She  was  alone,  but  she  ex- 
pected soon  to  find  a  pal  of  some  sort. 

The  roundabouts  were  veering  round  and  grinding  out 
their  music,  the  side  shows  were  making  as  much  commo- 
tion as  possible.  In  the  cocoanut  shies  there  were  no 
cocoanuts,  but  artificial  war-time  substitutes,  which  the 
lads  declared  were  fastened  into  the  irons.  There  was  a 
sad  decline  in  brilliance  and  luxury.  None  the  less,  the 
ground  was  muddy  as  ever,  there  was  the  same  crush,  the 
press  of  faces  lighted  up  by  the  flares  and  the  electric 


S6  TICKETS,  PLEASE 

lights,  the  same  smell  of  naphtha  and  a  few  fried  pota- 
toes, and  of  electricity. 

Who  should  be  the  first  to  greet  Miss  Annie,  on  the  show 
ground,  but  John  Thomas.  He  had  a  black  overcoat  but- 
toned up  to  his  chin,  and  a  tweed  cap  pulled  down  over 
his  brows,  his  face  between  was  ruddy  and  smiling  and 
handy  as  ever.  She  knew  so  well  the  way  his  mouth 
moved. 

She  was  very  glad  to  have  a  "boy."  To  be  at  the 
Statutes  without  a  fellow  was  no  fun.  Instantly,  like  the 
gallant  he  was,  he  took  her  on  the  Dragons,  grim-toothed, 
round-about  switchbacks.  It  was  not  nearly  so  exciting 
as  a  tram-car  actually.  But,  then,  to  be  seated  in  a  shak- 
ing green  dragon,  uplifted  above  the  sea  of  bubble  faces, 
careering  in  a  rickety  fashion  in  the  lower  heavens,  whilst 
John  Thomas  leaned  over  her,  his  cigarette  in  his  mouth, 
was  after  all  the  right  style.  She  was  a  plump,  quick, 
alive  little  creature.    So  she  was  quite  excited  and  happy. 

John  Thomas  made  her  stay  on  for  the  next  round. 
And  therefore  she  could  hardly  for  shame  repulse  him 
when  he  put  his  arm  round  her  and  drew  her  a  little  nearer 
to  him,  in  a  very  warm  and  cuddly  manner.  Besides, 
he  was  fairly  discreet,  he  kept  his  movement  as  hidden 
as  possible.  She  looked  down,  and  saw  that  his  red,  clean 
hand  was  out  of  sight  of  the  crowd.  And  they  knew  each 
other  so  well.    So  they  warmed  up  to  the  fair. 

After  the  dragons  they  went  on  the  horses.  John 
Thomas  paid  each  time,  so  she  could  but  be  complaisant. 
He,  of  course,  sat  astride  on  the  outer  horse — named 
"Black  Bess" — and  she  sat  sideways,  towards  him,  on  the 
inner  horse — named  "Wildfire."     But  of  course  John 


TICKETS,  PLEASE  57 

Thomas  was  not  going  to  sit  discreetly  on  "Black  Bess," 
holding  the  brass  bar.  Round  they  spun  and  heaved,  in 
the  light.  And  round  he  swung  on  his  wooden  steed,  fling- 
ing one  leg  across  her  mount,  and  perilously  tipping  up  and 
down,  across  the  space,  half  lying  back,  laughing  at  her. 
He  was  perfectly  happy;  she  was  afraid  her  hat  was  on 
one  side,  but  she  was  excited. 

He  threw  quoits  on  a  table,  and  won  for  her  two  large, 
pale-blue  hat-pins.  And  then,  hearing  the  noise  of  the 
cinemas,  announcing  another  performance,  they  climbed 
the  boards  and  went  in. 

Of  course,  during  these  performances  pitch  darkness 
falls  from  time  to  time,  when  the  machine  goes  wrong. 
Then  there  is  a  wild  whooping,  and  a  loud  smacking  of 
simulated  kisses.  In  these  moments  John  Thomas  drew 
Annie  towards  him.  After  all,  he  had  a  wonderfully  warm, 
cosy  way  of  holding  a  girl  with  his  arm,  he  seemed  to 
make  such  a  nice  fit.  And  after  all,  it  was  pleasant  to  be 
so  held:  so  very  comforting  and  cosy  and  nice.  He  leaned 
over  her  and  she  felt  his  breath  on  her  hair;  she  knew  he 
wanted  to  kiss  her  on  the  lips.  And  after  all,  he  was  so 
warm  and  she  fitted  in  to  him  so  softly.  After  all,  she 
wanted  him  to  touch  her  lips. 

But  the  light  sprang  up;  she  also  started  electrically, 
and  put  her  hat  straight.  He  left  his  arm  lying  non- 
chalantly behind  her.  Well,  it  was  fun,  it  was  exciting  to 
be  at  the  Statutes  with  John  Thomas. 

When  the  cinema  was  over  they  went  for  a  walk  across 
the  dark,  damp  fields.  He  had  all  the  arts  of  love-making. 
He  was  especially  good  at  holding  a  girl,  when  he  sat  with 
her  on  a  stile  in  the  black,  drizzling  darkness.    He  seemed 


58  TICKETS,  PLEASE 

to  be  holding  her  in  space,  against  his  own  warmth  and 
gratification.  And  his  kisses  were  soft  and  slow  and 
searching. 

So  Annie  walked  out  with  John  Thomas,  though  she 
kept  her  own  boy  dangling  in  the  distance.  Some  of  the 
tram-girls  chose  to  be  huffy.  But  there,  you  must  take 
things  as  you  find  them,  in  this  life. 

There  was  no  mistake  about  it,  Annie  liked  John 
Thomas  a  good  deal.  She  felt  so  rich  and  warm  in  herself 
wherever  he  was  near.  And  John  Thomas  really  liked 
Annie,  more  than  usual.  The  soft,  melting  way  in  which 
she  could  flow  into  a  fellow,  as  if  she  melted  into  his  very 
bones,  was  something  rare  and  good.  He  fully  appreciated 
this. 

But  with  a  developing  acquaintance  there  began  a  de- 
veloping intimacy.  Annie  wanted  to  consider  him  a  per- 
son, a  man;  she  wanted  to  take  an  intelligent  interest  in 
him,  and  to  have  an  intelligent  response.  She  did  not 
want  a  mere  nocturnal  presence,  which  was  what  he  was 
so  far.   And  she  prided  herself  that  he  could  not  leave  her. 

Here  she  made  a  mistake.  John  Thomas  intended  to 
remain  a  nocturnal  presence;  he  had  no  idea  of  becoming 
an  all-round  individual  to  her.  When  she  started  to  take 
an  intelligent  interest  in  him  and  his  life  and  his  character, 
he  sheered  off.  He  hated  intelligent  interest.  And  he 
knew  that  the  only  way  to  stop  it  was  to  avoid  it.  The 
possessive  female  was  aroused  in  Annie.    So  he  left  her. 

It  is  no  use  saying  she  was  not  surprised.  She  was  at 
first  startled,  thrown  out  of  her  count.  For  she  had  been 
so  very  sure  of  holding  him.  For  a  while  she  was  stag- 
gered, and  everything  became  uncertain  to  her.    Then 


TICKETS,  PLEASE  5$ 

she  wept  with  fury,  indignation,  desolation,  and  misery. 
Then  she  had  a  spasm  of  despair.  And  then,  when  he 
came,  still  impudently,  on  to  her  car,  still  familiar,  but  let- 
ting her  see  by  the  movement  of  his  head  that  he  had  gone 
away  to  somebody  else  for  the  time  being,  and  was  enjoy- 
ing pastures  new,  then  she  determined  to  have  her  own 
back. 

She  had  a  very  shrewd  idea  what  girls  John  Thomas 
had  taken  out.  She  went  to  Nora  Purdy.  Nora  was  a  tall, 
rather  pale,  but  well-built  girl,  with  beautiful  yellow  hair. 
She  was  rather  secretive. 

"Hey!"  said  Annie,  accosting  her;  then  softly,  "Who's 
John  Thomas  on  with  now?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Nora. 

"Why  tha  does,"  said  Annie,  ironically  lapsing  into  dia- 
lect.   "Tha  knows  as  well  as  I  do." 

"Well,  I  do,  then,"  said  Nora.  "It  isn't  me,  so  don't 
bother." 

"It's  Cissy  Meakin,  isn't  it?" 

"It  is,  for  all  I  know." 

"Hasn't  he  got  a  face  on  him  I"  said  Annie.  *'I  don't 
half  like  his  cheek.  I  could  knock  him  off  the  footboard 
when  he  comes  round  at  me." 

"He'll  get  dropped-on  one  of  these  days,"  said  Nora. 

"Ay,  he  will  when  somebody  makes  up  their  mind  to 
drop  it  on  him.  I  should  like  to  see  him  taken  down  a  peg 
or  two,  shouldn't  you?" 

"I  shouldn't  mind,"  said  Nora. 

"You've  got  quite  as  much  cause  to  as  I  have,"  said 
Annie.  "But  we'll  drop  on  him  one  of  these  days,  my  girl. 
What?    Don't  you  want  to?" 


6o  TICKETS,  PLEASE 

"I  don^t  mind,"  said  Nora. 

But  as  a  matter  of  fact,  Nora  was  much  more  vindictive 
than  Annie. 

One  by  one  Annie  went  the  round  of  the  old  flames. 
It  so  happened  that  Cissy  Meakin  left  the  tramway  service 
in  quite  a  short  time.  Her  mother  made  her  leave.  Then 
John  Thomas  was  on  the  qui-vive.  He  cast  his  eyes  over 
his  old  flock.  And  his  eyes  lighted  on  Annie.  He  thought 
she  would  be  safe  now.    Besides,  he  liked  her. 

She  arranged  to  walk  home  with  him  on  Sunday  night. 
It  so  happened  that  her  car  would  be  in  the  depot  at  half- 
past  nine:  the  last  car  would  come  in  at  10.15.  So  John 
Thomas  was  to  wait  for  her  there. 

At  the  depot  the  girls  had  a  little  waiting-room  of  their 
own.  It  was  quite  rough,  but  cosy,  with  a  fire  and  an  oven 
and  a  mirror,  and  table  and  wooden  chairs.  The  half  dozen 
girls  who  knew  John  Thomas  only  too  well  had  arranged 
to  take  service  this  Sunday  afternoon.  So,  as  the  cars 
began  to  come  in,  early,  the  girls  dropped  into  the  waiting- 
room.  And  instead  of  hurrying  off  home,  they  sat  around 
the  fire  and  had  a  cup  of  tea.  Outside  was  the  darkness 
and  lawlessness  of  war-time. 

John  Thomas  came  on  the  car  after  Annie,  at  about  a 
quarter  to  ten.  He  poked  his  head  easily  into  the  girls' 
waiting-room. 

"Prayer-meeting?"  he  asked. 

"Ay,"  said  Laura  Sharp.    "Ladies  only." 

"That's  me  I"  said  John  Thomas.  It  was  one  of  his 
favourite  exclamations. 

"Shut  the  door,  boy,"  said  Muriel  Baggaley. 

"On  which  side  of  me?"  said  John  Thomas. 


TICKETS,  PLEASE  6i 

"Which  tha  likes,"  said  Polly  Birkin. 

He  had  come  in  and  closed  the  door  behind  him.  The 
girls  moved  in  their  circle,  to  make  a  place  for  him  near 
the  fire.  He  took  off  his  great-coat  and  pushed  back  his 
hat. 

"Who  handles  the  teapot?"  he  said. 

Nora  Purdy  silently  poured  him  out  a  cup  of  tea. 

"Want  a  bit  o'  my  bread  and  drippin'?"  said  Muriel 
Baggaley  to  him. 

"Ay,  give  us  a  bit." 

And  he  began  to  eat  his  piece  of  bread. 

"There's  no  place  like  home,  girls,"  he  said. 

They  all  looked  at  him  as  he  uttered  this  piece  of  im- 
pudence. He  seemed  to  be  sunning  himself  in  the  presence 
of  so  many  damsels. 

"Especially  if  you're  not  afraid  to  go  home  in  the  dark," 
said  Laura  Sharp. 

"Me!     By  myself  I  am." 

They  sat  till  they  heard  the  last  tram  come  in.  In  a  few 
minutes  Emma  Houselay  entered. 

"Come  on,  my  old  duck!"  cried  Polly  Birkin. 

"It  is  perishing,"  said  Emma,  holding  her  fingers  to  the 
fire. 

"But — I'm  afraid  to,  go  home  in,  the  dark,"  sang  Laura 
Sharp,  the  tune  having  got  into  her  mind. 

"Who're  you  going  with  to-night,  John  Thomas?"  asked 
Muriel  Baggaley,  coolly. 

"To-night?"  said  John  Thomas.  "Oh,  I'm  going  home 
by  myself  to-night — all  on  my  lonely-0." 

"That's  me!"  said  Nora  Purdy,  using  his  own  ejacula- 
tion. 


62  TICKETS,  PLEASE 

The  girls  laughed  shrilly. 

"Me  as  well,  Nora,"  said  John  Thomas. 

"Don't  know  what  you  mean,"  said  Laura. 

"Yes,  I'm  toddling,"  said  he,  rising  and  reaching  for 
his  overcoat. 

"Nay,"  said  Polly.    "We're  all  here  waiting  for  you." 

"We've  got  to  be  up  in  good  time  in  the  morning,"  he 
said,  in  the  benevolent  official  manner. 

They  all  laughed. 

"Nay,"  said  Muriel.  "Don't  leave  us  all  lonely,  John 
Thomas.    Take  one!" 

"I'll  take  the  lot,  if  you  like,"  he  responded,  gallantly. 

"That  you  won't,  either,"  said  Muriel.  "Two's  com- 
pany;  seven's  too  much  of  a  good  thing." 

"Nay — take  one,"  said  Laura.  "Fair  and  square,  all 
above  board,  and  say  which." 

"Ay,"  cried  Annie,  speaking  for  the  first  time.  "Pick, 
John  Thomas;   let's  hear  thee." 

"Nay,"  he  said.  "I'm  going  home  quiet  to-night.  Feel- 
ing good,  for  once." 

"Whereabouts?"  said  Annie.  "Take  a  good  un,  then. 
But  tha's  got  to  take  one  of  us! " 

"Nay,  how  can  I  take  one,"  he  said,  laughing  uneasily. 
"I  don't  want  to  make  enemies." 

"You'd  only  make  owe,"  said  Annie. 

"The  chosen  owe,"  added  Laura. 

"Oh,  my!  Who  said  girls!"  exclaimed  John  Thomas, 
again  turning,  as  if  to  escape.    "Well — ^good-night." 

"Nay,  you've  got  to  make  your  pick,"  said  Muriel. 
"Turn  your  face  to  the  wall,  and  say  which  one  touches 
you.    Go  on — ^we  shall  only  just  touch  your  back — one 


TICKETS,  PLEASE  63 

of  us.    Go  on — ^turn  your  face  to  the  wall,  and  don't  look, 
and  say  which  one  touches  you." 

He  was  uneasy,  mistrusting  them.  Yet  he  had  not  the 
courage  to  break  away.  They  pushed  him  to  a  wall  and 
stood  him  there  with  his  face  to  it.  Behind  his  back  they 
all  grimaced,  tittering.  He  looked  so  comical.  He  looked 
around  uneasily. 

"Go  on!  "he  cried. 

"You're  looking — ^you're  looking!"  they  shouted. 

He  turned  his  head  away.  And  suddenly,  with  a  move- 
ment like  a  swift  cat,  Annie  went  forward  and  fetched  him 
a  box  on  the  side  of  the  head  that  sent  his  cap  flying, 
and  himself  staggering.   He  started  round. 

But  at  Annie's  signal  they  all  flew  at  him,  slapping 
him,  pinching  him,  pulling  his  hair,  though  more  in 
fun  than  in  spite  or  anger.  He,  however,  saw  red.  His 
blue  eyes  flamed  with  strange  fear  as  well  as  fury,  and 
he  butted  through  the  girls  to  the  door.  It  was  locked. 
He  wrenched  at  it.  Roused,  alert,  the  girls  stood  round 
and  looked  at  him.  He  faced  them,  at  bay.  At  that 
moment  they  were  rather  horrifying  to  him,  as  they  stood 
in  their  short  uniforms.    He  was  distinctly  afraid. 

"Come  on,  John  Thomas!  Come  on!  Choose!"  said 
Annie. 

"What  are  you  after?     Open  the  door,"  he  said. 

"We  sha'n't — ^not  till  you've  chosen ! "  said  Muriel. 

"Chosen  what?"  he  said. 

"Chosen  the  one  you're  going  to  marry,"  she  replied. 

He  hesitated  a  moment. 

"Open  the  blasted  door,"  he  said,  "and  get  back  to  your 
senses."    He  spoke  with  official  authority. 


64  TICKETS,  PLEASE 

" YouVe  got  to  choose ! "  cried  the  girls. 

"Come  on!"  cried  Annie,  looking  him  in  the  eye. 
"Come  on  I     Come  on  I " 

He  went  forward,  rather  vaguely.  She  had  taken  off 
her  belt,  and  swinging  it,  she  fetched  him  a  sharp  blow 
over  the  head  with  the  buckle  end.  He  sprang  and  seized 
her.  But  immediately  the  other  girls  rushed  upon  him, 
pulling  and  tearing  and  beating  him.  Their  blood  was  now 
thoroughly  up.  He  was  their  sport  now.  They  were  going 
to  have  their  own  back,  out  of  him.  Strange,  wild  crea- 
tures, they  hung  on  him  and  rushed  at  him  to  bear  him 
down.  His  tunic  was  torn  right  up  the  back,  Nora  had 
hold  at  the  back  of  his  collar,  and  was  actually  strangling 
him.  Luckily  the  button  burst.  He  struggled  in  a  wild 
frenzy  of  fury  and  terror,  almost  mad  terror.  His  tunic 
was  simply  torn  off  his  back,  his  shirt-sleeves  were  torn 
away,  his  arms  were  naked.  The  girls  rushed  at  him, 
clenched  their  hands  on  him  and  pulled  at  him:  or 
they  rushed  at  him  and  pushed  him,  butted  him  with  all 
their  might:  or  they  struck  him  wild  blows.  He  ducked 
and  cringed  and  struck  sideways.  They  became  more 
intense. 

At  last  he  was  down.  They  rushed  on  him,  kneeling  on 
him.  He  had  neither  breath  nor  strength  to  move.  His 
face  was  bleeding  with  a  long  scratch,  his  brow  was 
bruised. 

Annie  knelt  on  him,  the  other  girls  knelt  and  hung  on 
to  him.  Their  faces  were  flushed,  their  hair  wild,  their 
eyes  were  all  glittering  strangely.  He  lay  at  last  quite  still, 
with  face  averted,  as  an  animal  lies  when  it  is  defeated 
and  at  the  mercy  of  the  captor.  Sometimes  his  eye  glanced 


TICKETS,  PLEASE  65 

back  at  the  wild  faces  of  the  girls.  His  breast  rose  heavily, 
his  wrists  were  torn. 

"Now,  then,  my  fellow! "  gasped  Annie  at  length.  "Now 
then — ^no  w '  * 

At  the  sound  of  her  terrifying,  cold  triumph,  he  sud- 
denly started  to  struggle  as  an  animal  might,  but  the  girls 
threw  themselves  upon  him  with  unnatural  strength  and 
power,  forcing  him  down. 

"Yes — now,  then  I "  gasped  Annie  at  length. 

And  there  was  a  dead  silence,  in  which  the  thud  of  heart- 
beating  was  to  be  heard.  It  was  a  suspense  of  pure  silence 
in  every  soul. 

"Now  you  know  where  you  are,"  said  Annie. 

The  sight  of  his  white,  bare  arm  maddened  the  girls. 
He  lay  in  a  kind  of  trance  of  fear  and  antagonism.  They 
felt  themselves  filled  with  supernatural  strength. 

Suddenly  Polly  started  to  laugh — to  giggle  wildly— 
helplessly — and  Emma  and  Muriel  joined  in.  But  Annie 
and  Nora  and  Laura  remained  the  same,  tense,  watchful, 
with  gleaming  eyes.    He  winced  away  from  these  eyes. 

"Yes,"  said  Annie,  in  a  curious  low  tone,  secret  and 
deadly.  "Yes!  YouVe  got  it  now!  You  know  what 
youVe  done,  don't  you?    You  know  what  you've  done." 

He  made  no  sound  nor  sign,  but  lay  with  bright,  averted 
eyes,  and  averted,  bleeding  face. 

"You  ought  to  be  killed,  that's  what  you  ought,"  said 
Annie,  tensely.  "You  ought  to  be  killed"  And  there  was 
a  terrifying  lust  in  her  voice. 

Polly  was  ceasing  to  laugh,  and  giving  long-drawn 
Oh-h-hs  and  sighs  as  she  came  to  herself. 

"He's  got  to  choose,"  she  said  vaguely. 


66  TICKETS,  PLEASE 

"Oh,  yes,  he  has,"  said  Laura,  with  vindictive  decision. 

"Do  you  hear — do  you  hear?"  said  Annie.  And  with  a 
sharp  movement,  that  made  him  wince,  she  turned  his 
face  to  her. 

"Do  you  hear?"  she  repeated,  shaking  him. 

But  he  was  quite  dumb.  She  fetched  him  a  sharp  slap 
on  the  face.  He  started,  and  his  eyes  widened.  Then  his 
face  darkened  with  defiance,  after  all. 

"Do  you  hear?"  she  repeated. 

He  only  looked  at  her  with  hostile  eyes. 

"Speak!"  she  said,  putting  her  face  devilishly  near  his. 

"What?"  he  said,  almost  overcome. 

"YouVe  got  to  choose  f^^  she  cried,  as  if  it  were  some 
terrible  menace,  and  as  if  it  hurt  her  that  she  could  not 
exact  more. 

"What?"  he  said,  in  fear. 

"Choose  your  girl,  Coddy.  YouVe  got  to  choose  her 
now.  And  you'll  get  your  neck  broken  if  you  play  any 
more  of  your  tricks,  my  boy.   You're  settled  now." 

There  was  a  pause.  Again  he  averted  his  face.  He  was 
cunning  in  his  overthrow.  He  did  not  give  in  to  them 
really — no,  not  if  they  tore  him  to  bits. 

"All  right,  then,"  he  said,  "I  choose  Annie."  His  voice 
was  strange  and  full  of  malice.  Annie  let  go  of  him  as  if 
he  had  been  a  hot  coal. 

"He's  chosen  Annie ! "  said  the  girls  in  chorus. 

"Me!"  cried  Annie.  She  was  still  kneeling,  but  away 
from  him.  He  was  still  lying  prostrate,  with  averted  face. 
The  girls  grouped  uneasily  around. 

"Mel"  repeated  Annie,  with  a  terrible  bitter  accent. 


TICKETS,  PLEASE  67 

Then  she  got  up,  drawing  away  from  him  with  strange 
disgust  and  bitterness. 

"I  wouldn't  touch  him,"  she  said. 

But  her  face  quivered  with  a  kind  of  agony,  she  seemed 
as  if  she  would  fall.  The  other  girls  turned  aside.  He 
remained  lying  on  the  floor,  with  his  torn  clothes  and 
bleeding,  averted  face. 

"Oh,  if  he's  chosen "  said  Polly. 

"I  don't  want  him — he  can  choose  again,"  said  Annie, 
with  the  same  rather  bitter  hopelessness. 

"Get  up,"  said  Polly,  lifting  his  shoulder.    "Get  up." 

He  rose  slowly,  a  strange,  ragged,  dazed  creature.  The 
girls  eyed  him  from  a  distance,  curiously,  furtively,  dan- 
gerously. 

"Who  wants  him?"  cried  Laura,  roughly. 

"Nobody,"  they  answered,  with  contempt.  Yet  each 
one  of  them  waited  for  him  to  look  at  her,  hoped  he  would 
look  at  her.  All  except  Annie,  and  something  was  broken 
in  her. 

He,  however,  kept  his  face  closed  and  averted  from 
them  all.  There  was  a  silence  of  the  end.  He  picked  up 
the  torn  pieces  of  his  tunic,  without  knowing  what  to  do 
with  them.  The  girls  stood  about  uneasily,  flushed,  pant- 
ing, tidying  their  hair  and  their  dress  unconsciously,  and 
watching  him.  He  looked  at  none  of  them.  He  espied  his 
cap  in  a  corner,  and  went  and  picked  it  up.  He  put  it 
on  his  head,  and  one  of  the  girls  burst  into  a  shrill,  hysteric 
laugh  at  the  sight  he  presented.  He,  however,  took  no 
heed,  but  went  straight  to  where  his  overcoat  hung  on  a 
peg.  The  girls  moved  away  from  contact  with  him  as  if 
he  had  been  an  electric  wire.    He  put  on  his  coat  and 


68  TICKETS,  PLEASE 

buttoned  it  down.  Then  he  rolled  his  tunic-rags  into  a 
bundle,  and  stood  before  the  locked  door,  dumbly. 

"Open  the  door,  somebody,"  said  Laura. 

"Annie's  got  the  key,"  said  one. 

Annie  silently  offered  the  key  to  the  girls.  Nora  un- 
locked the  door. 

"Tit  for  tat,  old  man,"  she  said.  "Show  yourself  a  man, 
and  don't  bear  a  grudge." 

But  without  a  word  or  sign  he  had  opened  the  door  and 
gone,  his  face  closed,  his  head  dropped. 

"That'll  learn  him,"  said  Laura. 

"Coddy!"  said  Nora. 

"Shut  up,  for  God's  sake  I"  cried  Annie  fiercely,  as  if 
in  torture. 

"Well,  I'm  about  ready  to  go,  Polly.  Look  sharp ! "  said 
Muriel. 

The  girls  were  all  anxious  to  be  off.  They  were  tid5dng 
themselves  hurriedly,  with  mute,  stupefied  faces. 


THE  BLIND  MAN 


THE  BLIND  MAN 

Isabel  Pervin  was  listening  for  two  sounds — for  the 
sound  of  wheels  on  the  drive  outside  and  for  the  noise  of 
her  husband's  footsteps  in  the  hall.  Her  dearest  and  old- 
est friend,  a  man  who  seemed  almost  indispensable  to  her 
living,  would  drive  up  in  the  rainy  dusk  of  the  closing 
November  day.  The  trap  had  gone  to  fetch  him  from  the 
station.  And  her  husband,  who  had  been  blinded  in  Flan- 
ders, and  who  had  a  disfiguring  mark  on  his  brow,  would 
be  coming  in  from  the  out-houses. 

He  had  been  home  for  a  year  now.  He  was  totally 
blind.  Yet  they  had  been  very  happy.  The  Grange  was 
Maurice^s  own  place.  The  back  was  a  farmstead,  and  the 
Wemhams,  who  occupied  the  rear  premises,  acted  as 
farmers.  Isabel  lived  with  her  husband  in  the  handsome 
rooms  in  front.  She  and  he  had  been  almost  entirely  alone 
together  since  he  was  wounded.  They  talked  and  sang 
and  read  together  in  a  wonderful  and  unspeakable  in- 
timacy. Then  she  reviewed  books  for  a  Scottish  news- 
paper, carrying  on  her  old  interest,  and  he  occupied  him- 
self a  good  deal  with  the  farm.  Sightless,  he  could  still 
discuss  everything  with  Wernham,  and  he  could  also  do  a 
good  deal  of  work  about  the  place — menial  work,  it  is  true, 
but  it  gave  him  satisfaction.  He  milked  the  cows,  carried 
in  the  pails,  turned  the  separator,  attended  to  the  pigs  and 
horses.  Life  was  still  very  full  and  strangely  serene  for 
the  blind  man,  peaceful  with  the  almost  incomprehensible 

71 


72  THE  BLIND  MAN 

peace  of  immediate  contact  in  darkness.  With  his  wife 
he  had  a  whole  world,  rich  and  real  and  invisible. 

They  were  newly  and  remotely  happy.  He  did  not  even 
regret  the  loss  of  his  sight  in  these  times  of  dark,  palpable 
joy.    A  certain  exultance  swelled  his  soul. 

But  as  time  wore  on,  sometimes  the  rich  glamour  would 
leave  them.  Sometimes,  after  months  of  this  intensity,  a 
sense  of  burden  overcame  Isabel,  a  weariness,  a  terrible 
ennui,  in  that  silent  house  approached  between  a  colonnade 
of  tall-shafted  pines.  Then  she  felt  she  would  go  mad,  for 
she  could  not  bear  it.  And  sometimes  he  had  devastating 
fits  of  depression,  which  seemed  to  lay  waste  his  whole 
being.  It  was  worse  than  depression — a  black  misery, 
when  his  own  life  was  a  torture  to  him,  and  when  his  pres- 
ence was  unbearable  to  his  wife.  The  dread  went  down  to 
the  roots  of  her  soul  as  these  black  days  recurred.  In  a 
kind  of  panic  she  tried  to  wrap  herself  up  still  further  in 
her  husband.  She  forced  the  old  spontaneous  cheerfulness 
and  joy  to  continue.  But  the  effort  it  cost  her  was  almost 
too  much.  She  knew  she  could  not  keep  it  up.  She  felt 
she  would  scream  with  the  strain,  and  would  give  any- 
thing, anything,  to  escape.  She  longed  to  possess  her  hus- 
band utterly;  it  gave  her  inordinate  joy  to  have  him 
entirely  to  herself.  And  yet,  when  again  he  was  gone  in 
a  black  and  massive  misery,  she  could  not  bear  him,  she 
could  not  bear  herself;  she  wished  she  could  be  snatched 
away  off  the  earth  altogether,  anything  rather  than  live 
at  this  cost. 

Dazed,  she  schemed  for  a  way  out.  She  invited  friends, 
she  tried  to  give  him  some  further  connection  with  the 
outer  world.    But  it  was  no  good.    After  all  their  joy  and 


THE  BLIND  MAN  73 

suffering,  after  their  dark,  great  year  of  blindness  and 
solitude  and  unspeakable  nearness,  other  people  seemed 
to  them  both  shallow,  rattling,  rather  impertinent.  Shal- 
low prattle  seemed  presumptuous.  He  became  impatient 
and  irritated,  she  was  wearied.  And  so  they  lapsed  into 
their  solitude  again.    For  they  preferred  it. 

But  now,  in  a  few  weeks'  time,  her  second  baby  would 
be  born.  The  first  had  died,  an  infant,  when  her  husband 
first  went  out  to  France.  She  looked  with  joy  and  relief 
to  the  coming  of  the  second.  It  would  be  her  salvation. 
But  also  she  felt  some  anxiety.  She  was  thirty  years  old, 
her  husband  was  a  year  younger.  They  both  wanted  the 
child  very  much.  Yet  she  could  not  help  feeling  afraid. 
She  had  her  husband  on  her  hands,  a  terrible  joy  to  her, 
and  a  terrifying  burden.  The  child  would  occupy  her  love 
and  attention.  And  then,  what  of  Maurice?  What  would 
he  do?  If  only  she  could  feel  that  he,  too,  would  be  at 
peace  and  happy  when  the  child  came!  She  did  so  want 
to  luxuriate  in  a  rich,  physical  satisfaction  of  maternity. 
But  the  man,  what  would  he  do?  How  could  she  provide 
for  him,  how  avert  those  shattering  black  moods  of  his, 
which  destroyed  them  both? 

She  sighed  with  fear.  But  at  this  time  Bertie  Reid 
wrote  to  Isabel.  He  was  her  old  friend,  a  second  or  third 
cousin,  a  Scotchman,  as  she  was  a  Scotchwoman.  They 
had  been  brought  up  near  to  one  another,  and  all  her  life 
he  had  been  her  friend,  like  a  brother,  but  better  than  her 
own  brothers.  She  loved  him — ^though  not  in  the  marry- 
ing sense.  There  was  a  sort  of  kinship  between  them,  an 
affinity.    They  understood  one  another  instinctively.    But 


74  THE  BLIND  MAN 

Isabel  would  never  have  thought  of  marrying  Bertie.  It 
would  have  seemed  like  marrying  in  her  own  family. 

Bertie  was  a  barrister  and  a  man  of  letters,  a  Scotchman 
of  the  intellectual  t)^e,  quick,  ironical,  sentimental,  and  on 
his  knees  before  the  woman  he  adored  but  did  not  want  to 
marry.  Maurice  Pervin  was  different.  He  came  of  a  good 
old  country  family — the  Grange  was  not  a  very  great  dis- 
tance from  Oxford.  He  was  passionate,  sensitive,  perhaps 
over-sensitive,  wincing — a  big  fellow  with  heavy  limbs  and 
a  forehead  that  flushed  painfully.  For  his  mind  was  slow, 
as  if  drugged  by  the  strong  provincial  blood  that  beat  in 
his  veins.  He  was  very  sensitive  to  his  own  mental  slow- 
ness, his  feelings  being  quick  and  acute.  So  that  he  was 
just  the  opposite  to  Bertie,  whose  mind  was  much  quicker 
than  his  emotions,  which  were  not  so  very  fine. 

From  the  first  the  two  men  did  not  like  each  other. 
Isabel  felt  that  they  ought  to  get  on  together.  But  they 
did  not.  She  felt  that  if  only  each  could  have  the  clue  to 
the  other  there  would  be  such  a  rare  understanding  be- 
tween them.  It  did  not  come  off,  however.  Bertie  adopted 
a  slightly  ironical  attitude,  very  offensive  to  Maurice,  who 
returned  the  Scotch  irony  with  English  resentment,  a  re- 
sentment which  deepened  sometimes  into  stupid  hatred. 

This  was  a  little  puzzling  to  Isabel.  However,  she 
accepted  it  in  the  course  of  things.  Men  were  made  freak- 
ish and  unreasonable.  Therefore,  when  Maurice  was  going 
out  to  France  for  the  second  time,  she  felt  that,  for  her 
husband's  sake,  she  must  discontinue  her  friendship  with 
Bertie.  She  wrote  to  the  barrister  to  this  effect.  Bertram 
Reid  simply  replied  that  in  this,  as  in  all  other  matters,  he 
must  obey  her  wishes,  if  these  were  indeed  her  wishes. 


THE  BLIND  MAN  75 

For  nearly  two  years  nothing  had  passed  between  the 
two  friends.  Isabel  rather  gloried  in  the  fact;  she  had  no 
compunction.  She  had  one  great  article  of  faith,  which 
was,  that  husband  and  wife  should  be  so  important  to  one 
pother,  that  the  rest  of  the  world  simply  did  not  count. 
She  and  Maurice  were  husband  and  wife.  They  loved  one 
another.  They  would  have  children.  Then  let  everybody 
and  everything  else  fade  into  insignificance  outside  this 
connubial  felicity.  She  professed  herself  quite  happy  and 
ready  to  receive  Maurice's  friends.  She  was  happy  and 
ready:  the  happy  wife,  the  ready  woman  in  possession. 
Without  knowing  why,  the  friends  retired  abashed,  and 
came  no  more.  Maurice,  of  course,  took  as  much  satis- 
faction in  this  connubial  absorption  as  Isabel  did. 

He  shared  in  Isabel's  literary  activities,  she  cultivated 
a  real  interest  in  agriculture  and  cattle-raising.  For  she, 
being  at  heart  perhaps  an  emotional  enthusiast,  always 
cultivated  the  practical  side  of  life,  and  prided  herself  on 
her  mastery  of  practical  affairs.  Thus  the  husband  and 
wife  had  spent  the  five  years  of  their  married  life.  The 
last  had  been  one  of  blindness  and  unspeakable  intimacy. 
And  now  Isabel  felt  a  great  indifference  coming  over  her, 
a  sort  of  lethargy.  She  wanted  to  be  allowed  to  bear  her 
child  in  peace,  to  nod  by  the  fire  and  drift  vaguely,  physi- 
cally, from  day  to  day.  Maurice  was  like  an  ominous 
thunder-cloud.  She  had  to  keep  waking  up  to  remember 
him. 

When  a  little  note  came  from  Bertie,  asking  if  he  were 
to  put  up  a  tombstone  to  their  dead  friendship,  and  speak- 
ing of  the  real  pain  he  felt  on  account  of  her  husband's 


76  THE  BLIND  MAN 

loss  of  sight,  she  felt  a  pang,  a  fluttering  agitation  of  re- 
awakening.   And  she  read  the  letter  to  Maurice. 

"Ask  him  to  come  down,"  he  said. 

"Ask  Bertie  to  come  here! "  she  re-echoed. 

"Yes — if  he  wants  to." 

Isabel  paused  for  a  few  moments. 

"I  know  he  wants  to — ^he'd  only  be  too  glad,"  she  re- 
plied. "But  what  about  you,  Maurice?  How  would  you 
like  it?" 

"I  should  like  it." 

"Well — in  that  case But  I  thought  you  didn't 

care  for  him " 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  I  might  think  differently  of  him 
now,"  the  blind  man  replied.  It  was  rather  abstruse  to 
Isabel. 

"Well,  dear,"  she  said,  "if  you're  quite  sure " 

"I'm  sure  enough.   Let  him  come,"  said  Maurice. 

So  Bertie  was  coming,  coming  this  evening,  in  the 
November  rain  and  darkness.  Isabel  was  agitated,  racked 
with  her  old  restlessness  and  indecision.  She  had  always 
suffered  from  this  pain  of  doubt,  just  an  agonising  sense  of 
uncertainty.  It  had  begun  to  pass  off,  in  the  lethargy  of 
maternity.  Now  it  returned,  and  she  resented  it.  She 
struggled  as  usual  to  maintain  her  calm,  composed, 
friendly  bearing,  a  sort  of  mask  she  wore  over  all  her 
body. 

A  woman  had  lighted  a  tall  lamp  beside  the  table,  and 
spread  the  cloth.  The  long  dining-room  was  dim,  with  its 
elegant  but  rather  severe  pieces  of  old  furniture.  Only  the 
round  table  glowed  softly  under  the  light.  It  had  a  rich, 
beautiful  effect.   The  white  cloth  glistened  and  dropped  its 


THE  BLIND  MAN  77 

heavy,  pointed  lace  corners  almost  to  the  carpet,  the  china 
was  old  and  handsome,  creamy-yellow,  with  a  blotched 
pattern  of  harsh  red  and  deep  blue,  the  cups  large  and 
bell-shaped,  the  teapot  gallant.  Isabel  looked  at  it  with 
superficial  appreciation. 

Her  nerves  were  hurting  her.  She  looked  automatically 
again  at  the  high,  uncurtained  windows.  In  the  last  dusk 
she  could  just  perceive  outside  a  huge  fir-tree  swaying  its 
boughs:  it  was  as  if  she  thought  it  rather  than  saw  it.  The 
rain  came  flying  on  the  window  panes.  Ah,  why  had  she 
no  peace?  These  two  men,  why  did  they  tear  at  her?  ' 
Why  did  they  not  come — ^why  was  there  this  suspense? 

She  sat  in  a  lassitude  that  was  really  suspense  and 
irritation.  Maurice,  at  least,  might  come  in — there  was 
nothing  to  keep  him  out.  She  rose  to  her  feet.  Catching 
sight  of  her  reflection  in  a  mirror,  she  glanced  at  herself 
with  a  slight  smile  of  recognition,  as  if  she  were  an  old 
friend  to  herself.  Her  face  was  oval  and  calm,  her  nose  a 
little  arched.  Her  neck  made  a  beautiful  line  down  to  her 
shoulder.  With  hair  knotted  loosely  behind,  she  had 
something  of  a  warm,  maternal  look.  Thinking  this  of 
herself,  she  arched  her  eyebrows  and  her  rather  heavy 
eyelids,  with  a  little  flicker  of  a  smile,  and  for  a  moment 
her  grey  eyes  looked  amused  and  wicked,  a  little  sardonic, 
out  of  her  transfigured  Madonna  face. 

Then,  resuming  her  air  of  womanly  patience — she  was 
really  fatally  self-determined — she  went  with  a  little  jerk 
towards  the  door.    Her  eyes  were  slightly  reddened. 

She  passed  down  the  wide  hall,  and  through  a  door  at 
the  end.  Then  she  was  in  the  farm  premises.  The  scent 
of  dairy,  and  of  farm-kitchen,  and  of  farm-yard  and  of 


78  THE  BLIND  MAN 

leather  almost  overcame  her:  but  particularly  the  scent  of 
dairy.  They  had  been  scalding  out  the  pans.  The  flagged 
passage  in  front  of  her  was  dark,  puddled  and  wet.  Light 
came  out  from  the  open  kitchen  door.  She  went  forward 
and  stood  in  the  doorway.  The  farm-people  were  at  tea, 
seated  at  a  little  distance  from  her,  round  a  long,  narrow 
table,  in  the  centre  of  which  stood  a  white  lamp.  Ruddy 
faces,  ruddy  hands  holding  food,  red  mouths  working, 
heads  bent  over  the  tea-cups:  men,  land-girls,  boys:  it 
was  tea-time,  feeding-time.  Some  faces  caught  sight  of 
her.  Mrs.  Wernham,  going  round  behind  the  chairs  with 
a  large  black  teapot,  halting  slightly  in  her  walk,  was  not 
aware  of  her  for  a  moment.     Then  she  turned  suddenly. 

"Oh,  is  it  Madam!"  she  exlaimed  "Come  in,  then, 
come  in!  We're  at  tea/'  And  she  dragged  forward  a 
chair. 

"No,  I  won't  come  in,"  said  Isabel.  "I'm  afraid  I  inter- 
rupt your  meal." 

"No — ^no — not  likely.  Madam,  not  likely." 

"Hasn't  Mr.  Pervin  come  in,  do  you  know?" 

"I'm  sure  I  couldn't  say  I  Missed  him,  have  you, 
Madam?" 

"No,  I  only  wanted  him  to  come  in,"  laughed  Isabel,  as 
if  shyly. 

"Wanted  him,  did  ye?    Get  up,  boy — get  up,  now " 

Mrs.  Wernham  knocked  one  of  the  boys  on  the  shoulder. 
He  began  to  scrape  to  his  feet,  chewing  largely. 

"I  believe  he's  in  top  stable,"  said  another  face  from 
the  table. 

"Ahl  No,  don't  get  up.  I'm  going  myself,"  said 
Isabel. 


THE  BLIND  MAN  79 

"Don't  you  go  out  of  a  dirty  night  like  this.  Let  the  lad 
go.    Get  along  wi'  ye,  boy,"  said  Mrs.  Wernham. 

"No,  no,"  said  Isabel,  with  a  decision  that  was  always 
obeyed.  "Go  on  with  your  tea,  Tom.  I'd  like  to  go  across 
to  the  stable,  Mrs.  Wernham." 

"Did  ever  you  hear  tell!"  exclaimed  the  woman. 

"Isn't  the  trap  late?"  asked  Isabel. 

"Why,  no,"  said  Mrs.  Wernham,  peering  into  the  dis- 
tance at  the  tall,  dim  clock.  "No,  Madam — ^we  can  give  it 
another  quarter  or  twenty  minutes  yet,  good — ^yes,  every 
bit  of  a  quarter." 

"Ah  I  It  seems  late  when  darkness  falls  so  early,"  said 
Isabel. 

"It  do,  that  it  do.  Bother  the  days,  that  they  draw  in 
so,"  answered  Mrs.  Wernham.    "Proper  miserable  I " 

"They  are,"  said  Isabel,  withdrawing.  ^ 

She  pulled  on  her  overshoes,  wrapped  a  large  tartan 
shawl  around  her,  put  on  a  man's  felt  hat,  and  ventured 
out  along  the  causeways  of  the  first  yard.  It  was  very 
dark.  The  wind  was  roaring  in  the  great  elms  behind  the 
outhouses.  When  she  came  to  the  second  yard  the  dark- 
ness seemed  deeper.  She  was  unsure  of  her  footing.  She 
wished  she  had  brought  a  lantern.  Rain  blew  against  her. 
Half  she  liked  it,  half  she  felt  unwilling  to  battle. 

She  reached  at  last  the  just  visible  door  of  the  stable. 
There  was  no  sign  of  a  light  anywhere.  Opening  the  upper 
half,  she  looked  in:  into  a  simple  well  of  darkness.  The 
smell  of  horses,  and  ammonia,  and  of  warmth  was  startling 
to  her,  in  that  full  night.  She  listened  with  all  her  ears, 
but  could  hear  nothing  save  the  night,  and  the  stirring  of 
a  horse. 


8o  THE  BLIND  MAN 

"Maurice!"  she  called,  softly  and  musically,  though  she 
was  afraid.    "Maurice — are  you  there?" 

Nothing  came  from  the  darkness.  She  knew  the  rain 
and  wind  blew  in  upon^  the  horses,  the  hot  animal  life. 
Feeling  it  wrong,  she  entered  the  stable,  and  drew  the 
lower  half  of  the  door  shut,  holding  the  upper  part  close. 
She  did  not  stir,  because  she  was  aware  of  the  presence  of 
the  dark  hind-quarters  of  the  horses,  though  she  could  not 
see  them,  and  she  was  afraid.  Something  wild  stirred  in 
her  heart. 

She  listened  intensely.  Then  she  heard  a  small  noise 
in  the  distance — far  away,  it  seemed — the  chink  of  a  pan, 
and  a  man's  voice  speaking  a  brief  word.  It  would  be 
Maurice,  in  the  other  part  of  the  stable.  She  stood 
motionless,  waiting  for  him  to  come  through  the  partition 
door.  The  horses  were  so  terrifyingly  near  to  her,  in  the 
invisible. 

The  loud  jarring  of  the  inner  door-latch  made  her  start; 
the  door  was  opened.  She  could  hear  and  feel  her  husband 
entering  and  invisibly  passing  among  the  horses  near  to 
her,  darkness  as  they  were,  actively  intermingled.  The 
rather  low  sound  of  his  voice  as  he  spoke  to  the  horses 
came  velvety  to  her  nerves.  How  near  he  was,  and  how 
invisible!  The  darkness  seemed  to  be  in  a  strange  swirl 
of  violent  life,  just  upon  her.    She  turned  giddy. 

Her  presence  of  mind  made  her  call,  quietly  and  musi- 
cally: 

"Maurice !  Maurice — dea-ar ! " 

"Yes,"  he  answered.     "Isabel?" 

She  saw  nothing,  and  the  sound  of  his  voice  seemed  to 
touch  her. 


THE  BLIND  MAN  8i 

"Hello!"  she  answered  cheerfully,  straining  her  eyes  to 
see  him.  He  was  still  busy,  attending  to  the  horses  near 
her,  but  she  saw  only  darkness.  It  made  her  almost  des- 
perate. 

"Won't  you  come  in,  dear?"  she  said. 

"Yes,  I'm  coming.  Just  half  a  minute.  Stand  over — 
now!    Trap's  not  come,  has  it?" 

"Not  yet,"  said  Isabel. 

His  voice  was  pleasant  and  ordinary,  but  it  had  a  slight 
suggestion  of  the  stable  to  her.  She  wished  he  would  come 
away.  Whilst  he  was  so  utterly  invisible,  she  was  afraid 
of  him. 

"How's  the  time?"  he  asked. 

"Not  yet  six,"  she  replied.  She  disliked  to  answer  into 
the  dark.  Presently  he  came  very  near  to  her,  and  she 
retreated  out  of  doors. 

"The  weather  blows  in  here,"  he  said,  coming  steadily 
forward,  feeling  for  the  doors.  She  shrank  away.  At  last 
she  could  dimly  see  him. 

"Bertie  won't  have  much  of  a  drive,"  he  said,  as  he 
closed  the  doors. 

"He  won't  indeed!"  said  Isabel  calmly,  watching  the 
dark  shape  at  the  door. 

"Give  me  your  arm,  dear,"  she  said. 

She  pressed  his  arm  close  to  her,  as  she  went.  But  she 
longed  to  see  him,  to  look  at  him.  She  was  nervous.  He 
walked  erect,  with  face  rather  lifted,  but  with  a  curious 
tentative  movement  of  his  powerful,  muscular  legs.  She 
could  feel  the  clever,  careful,  strong  contact  of  his  feet 
with  the  earth,  as  she  balanced  against  him.  For  a  moment 


82  THE  BLIND  MAN 

he  was  a  tower  of  darkness  to  her,  as  if  he  rose  out  of  the 
earth. 

In  the  house-passage  he  wavered,  and  went  cautiously, 
with  a  curious  look  of  silence  about  him  as  he  felt  for  the 
bench.  Then  he  sat  down  heavily.  He  was  a  man  with 
rather  sloping  shoulders,  but  with  heavy  limbs,  powerful 
legs  that  seemed  to  know  the  earth.  His  head  was  small, 
usually  carried  high  and  light.  As  he  bent  down  to  un- 
fasten his  gaiters  and  boots  he  did  not  look  blind.  His 
hair  was  brown  and  crisp,  his  hands  were  large,  reddish, 
intelligent,  the  veins  stood  out  in  the  wrists;  and  his 
thighs  and  knees  seemed  massive.  When  he  stood  up  his 
face  and  neck  were  surcharged  with  blood,  the  veins  stood 
out  on  his  temples.    She  did  not  look  at  his  blindness. 

Isabel  was  always  glad  when  they  had  passed  through 
the  dividing  door  into  their  own  regions  of  repose  and 
beauty.  She  was  a  little  afraid  of  him,  out  there  in  the 
animal  grossness  of  the  back.  His  bearing  also  changed, 
as  he  smelt  the  familiar  indefinable  odour  that  pervaded 
his  wife's  surroundings,  a  delicate,  refined  scent,  very 
faintly  spicy.    Perhaps  it  came  from  the  pot-pourri  bowls. 

He  stood  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  arrested,  listening. 
She  watched  him,  and  her  heart  sickened.  He  seemed  to 
be  listening  to  fate. 

"He's  not  here  yet,"  he  said.    "I'll  go  up  and  change." 

"Maurice,"  she  said,  "you're  not  wishing  he  wouldn't 
come,  are  you?" 

"I  couldn't  quite  say,"  he  answered.  "I  feel  myself 
rather  on  the  qui  vivef* 

"I  can  see  you  are,"  she  answered.    And  she  reached  up 


THE  BLIND  MAN  83 

and  kissed  his  cheek.    She  saw  his  mouth  relax  into  a  slow 
smile. 

"What  are  you  laughing  at?"  she  said,  roguishly. 

"You  consoling  me,"  he  answered. 

"Nay,"  she  answered.  "Why  should  I  console  you? 
You  know  we  love  each  other — ^you  know  how  married  we 
arel    What  does  anything  else  matter?" 

"Nothing  at  all,  my  dear." 

He  felt  for  her  face,  and  touched  it,  smiling. 

''YouWe  all  right,  aren't  you?"  he  asked,  anxiously. 

"I'm  wonderfully  all  right,  love,"  she  answered.  "It's 
you  I  am  a  little  troubled  about,  at  times." 

"Why  me?"  he  said,  touching  her  cheeks  delicately  with 
the  tips  of  his  fingers.  The  touch  had  an  almost  hypnotis- 
ing effect  on  her. 

He  went  away  upstairs.  She  saw  him  mount  into  the 
darkness,  unseeing  and  unchanging.  He  did  not  know 
that  the  lamps  on  the  upper  corridor  were  unlighted.  He 
went  on  into  the  darkness  with  unchanging  step.  She 
heard  him  in  the  bath-room. 

Pervin  moved  about  almost  unconsciously  in  his  familiar 
surroundings,  dark  though  everything  was.  He  seemed  to 
know  the  presence  of  objects  before  he  touched  them.  It 
was  a  pleasure  to  him  to  rock  thus  through  a  world  of 
things,  carried  on  the  flood  in  a  sort  of  blood-prescience. 
He  did  not  think  much  or  trouble  much.  So  long  as  he 
kept  this  sheer  immediacy  of  blood-contact  with  the  sub- 
stantial world  he  was  happy,  he  wanted  no  intervention  of 
visual  consciousness.  In  this  state  there  was  a  certain  rich 
positivity,  bordering  sometimes  on  rapture.  Life  seemed 
to  move  in  him  like  a  tide  lapping,  lapping,  and  advancing, 


84  THE  BLIND  MAN 

enveloping  all  things  darkly.  It  was  a  pleasure  to  stretch 
forth  the  hand  and  meet  the  unseen  object,  clasp  it,  and 
possess  it  in  pure  contact.  He  did  not  try  to  remember, 
to  visualise.  He  did  not  want  to.  The  new  way  of  con- 
sciousness substituted  itself  in  him. 

The  rich  suffusion  of  this  state  generally  kept  him 
happy,  reaching  its  culmination  in  the  consuming  passion 
for  his  wife.  But  at  times  the  flow  would  seem  to  be 
checked  and  thrown  back.  Then  it  would  beat  inside  him 
like  a  tangled  sea,  and  he  was  tortured  in  the  shattered 
chaos  of  his  own  blood.  He  grew  to  dread  this  arrest,  this 
throw-back,  this  chaos  inside  himself,  when  he  seemed 
merely  at  the  mercy  of  his  own  powerful  and  conflicting 
elements.  How  to  get  some  measure  of  control  or  surety, 
this  was  the  question.  And  when  the  question  rose  mad- 
dening in  him,  he  would  clench  his  fists  as  if  he  would 
compel  the  whole  universe  to  submit  to  him.  But  it  was 
in  vain.    He  could  not  even  compel  himself. 

To-night,  however,  he  was  still  serene,  though  little 
tremors  of  unreasonable  exasperation  ran  through  him. 
He  had  to  handle  the  razor  very  carefully,  as  he  shaved, 
for  it  was  not  at  one  with  him,  he  was  afraid  of  it.  His 
hearing  also  was  too  much  sharpened.  He  heard  the 
woman  lighting  the  lamps  on  the  corridor,  and  attending 
to  the  fire  in  the  visitors'  room.  And  then,  as  he  went  to 
his  room,  he  heard  the  trap  arrive.  Then  came  Isabel's 
voice,  lifted  and  calling,  like  a  bell  ringing: 

*^Is  it  you,  Bertie?     Have  you  come?" 

And  a  man's  voice  answered  out  of  the  wind: 

"Hello,  Isabel !     There  you  are." 

"Have  you  had  a  miserable  drive?    I'm  so  sorry  we 


THE  BLIND  MAN  85 

couldn^t  send  a  closed  carriage.  I  can't  see  you  at  all,  you 
know." 

"I'm  coming.  No,  I  liked  the  drive — it  was  like  Perth- 
shire. Well,  how  are  you?  You're  looking  fit  as  ever,  as 
far  as  I  can  see." 

*'0h,  yes,"  said  Isabel.  "I'm  wonderfully  well.  How 
are  you?    Rather  thin,  I  think " 

"Worked  to  death — everybody's  old  cry.  But  I'm  all 
right,  Ciss.  How's  Pervin? — isn't  he  here?" 

"Oh,  yes,  he's  upstairs  changing.  Yes,  he's  awfully 
well.  Take  off  your  wet  things;  I'll  send  them  to  be 
dried." 

"And  how  are  you  both,  in  spirits?    He  doesn't  fret?" 

"No — ^no,  not  at  all.  No,  on  the  contrary,  really.  WeVe 
been  wonderfully  happy,  incredibly.  It's  more  than  I 
can  understand — so  wonderful:  the  nearness,  and  the 
peace " 

"Ah!    Well,  that's  awfully  good  news " 

They  moved  away.  Pervin  heard  no  more.  But  a 
childish  sense  of  desolation  had  come  over  him,  as  he  heard 
their  brisk  voices.  He  seemed  shut  out — ^like  a  child  that 
is  left  out.  He  was  aimless  and  excluded,  he  did  not  know 
what  to  do  with  himself.  The  helpless  desolation  came 
over  him.  He  fumbled  nervously  as  he  dressed  himself, 
in  a  state  almost  of  childishness.  He  disliked  the  Scotch 
accent  in  Bertie's  speech,  and  the  slight  response  it  found 
on  Isabel's  tongue.  He  disliked  the  slight  purr  of  com- 
placency in  the  Scottish  speech.  He  disliked  intensely  the 
glib  way  in  which  Isabel  spoke  of  their  happiness  and 
nearness.  It  made  him  recoil.  He  was  fretful  and  beside 
himself  like  a  child,  he  had  almost  a  childish  nostalgia  to 


86  THE  BLIND  MAN 

be  included  in  the  life  circle.  And  at  the  same  time  he 
was  a  man,  dark  and  powerful  and  infuriated  by  his  own 
weakness.  By  some  fatal  flaw,  he  could  not  be  by  himself, 
he  had  to  depend  on  the  support  of  another.  And  this 
very  dependence  enraged  him.  He  hated  Bertie  Reid,  and 
at  the  same  time  he  knew  the  hatred  was  nonsense,  he 
knew  it  was  the  outcome  of  his  own  weakness. 

He  went  downstairs.  Isabel  was  alone  in  the  dining- 
room.  She  watched  him  enter,  head  erect,  his  feet  tenta- 
tive. He  looked  so  strong-blooded  and  healthy,  and,  at  the 
same  time,  cancelled.  Cancelled — that  was  the  word  that 
flew  across  her  mind.    Perhaps  it  was  his  scar  suggested  it. 

"You  heard  Bertie  come,  Maurice?"  she  said. 

"Yes— isn't  he  here?" 

"He's  in  his  room.    He  looks  very  thin  and  worn." 

"I  suppose  he  works  himself  to  death." 

A  woman  came  in  with  a  tray — and  after  a  few  minutes 
Bertie  came  down.  He  was  a  little  dark  man,  with  a  very 
big  forehead,  thin,  wispy  hair,  and  sad,  large  eyes.  His 
expression  was  inordinately  sad — ^almost  funny.  He  had 
odd,  short  legs. 

Isabel  watched  him  hesitate  under  the  door,  and  glance 
nervously  at  her  husband.    Pervin  heard  him  and  turned. 

"Here  you  are,  now,"  said  Isabel.    "Come,  let  us  eat." 

Bertie  went  across  to  Maurice. 

"How  are  you,  Pervin?"  he  said,  as  he  advanced. 

The  blind  man  stuck  his  hand  out  into  space,  and  Bertie 
took  it. 

"Very  fit.    Glad  you've  come,"  said  Maurice. 

Isabel  glanced  at  them,  and  glanced  away,  as  if  she 
could  not  bear  to  see  them. 


THE  BLIND  MAN  87 

"Come,"  she  said.  "Come  to  table.  Aren't  you  both 
awfully  hungry?    I  am,  tremendously." 

"I'm  afraid  you  waited  for  me,"  said  Bertie,  as  they  sat 
down. 

Maurice  had  a  curious  monolithic  way  of  sitting  in  a 
chair,  erect  and  distant.  Isabel's  heart  always  beat  when 
she  caught  sight  of  him  thus. 

"No,"  she  replied  to  Bertie.  "We're  very  little  later 
than  usual.  We're  having  a  sort  of  high  tea,  not  dinner. 
Do  you  mind?  It  gives  us  such  a  nice  long  evening,  un- 
interrupted." 

"I  like  it,"  said  Bertie. 

Maurice  was  feeling,  with  curious  little  movements, 
almost  like  a  cat  kneading  her  bed,  for  his  plate,  his  knife 
and  fork,  his  napkin.  He  was  getting  the  whole  geography 
of  his  cover  into  his  consciousness.  He  sat  erect  and 
inscrutable,  remote-seeming.  Bertie  watched  the  static 
figure  of  the  blind  man,  the  delicate  tactile  discernment  of 
the  large,  ruddy  hands,  and  the  curious  mindless  silence  of 
the  brow,  above  the  scar.  With  difficulty  he  looked  away, 
and  without  knowing  what  he  did,  picked  up  a  little  crystal 
bowl  of  violets  from  the  table,  and  held  them  to  his  nose. 

"They  are  sweet-scented,"  he  said.  "Where  do  they 
come  from?" 

"From  the  garden — under  the  windows,"  said  Isabel. 

"So  late  in  the  year — and  so  fragrant!  Do  you  remem- 
ber the  violets  under  Aunt  Bell's  south  wall?" 

The  two  friends  looked  at  each  other  and  exchanged  a 
smile,  Isabel's  eyes  lighting  up. 

"Don't  I?"  she  replied.    'Wasn't  she  queer  I " 


88  THE  BLIND  MAN 

"A  curious  old  girl,"  laughed  Bertie.  "There's  a  streak 
of  freakishness  in  the  family,  Isabel." 

"Ah-— but  not  in  you  and  me,  Bertie,"  said  Isabel. 
"Give  them  to  Maurice,  will  you?"  she  added,  as  Bertie 
was  putting  down  the  flowers.  "Have  you  smelled  the 
violets,  dear  ?     Do  I  — they  are  so  scented  " 

Maurice  held  out  his  hand,  and  Bertie  placed  the  tiny 
bowl  against  his  large,  warm-looking  fingers.  Maurice's 
hand  closed  over  the  thin  white  fingers  of  the  barrister. 
Bertie  carefully  extricated  himself.  Then  the  two  watched 
the  blind  man  smelling  the  violets.  He  bent  his  head  and 
seemed  to  be  thinking.     Isabel  waited. 

"Aren't  they  sweet,  Maurice?"  she  said  at  last, 
anxiously. 

"Very,"  he  said.  And  he  held  out  the  bowl.  Bertie 
took  it.  Both  he  and  Isabel  were  a  little  afraid,  and  deeply 
disturbed. 

The  meal  continued.  Isabel  and  Bertie  chatted  Spas- 
modically. The  blind  man  was  silent.  He  touched  hia 
food  repeatedly,  with  quick,  delicate  touches  of  his  knife- 
point, then  cut  irregular  bits.  He  could  not  bear  to  be 
helped.  Both  Isabel  and  Bertie  suffered:  Isabel  wondered 
why.  She  did  not  suffer  when  she  was  alone  with  Maurice. 
Bertie  made  her  conscious  of  a  strangeness. 

After  the  meal  the  three  drew  their  chairs  to  the  fire, 
and  sat  down  to  talk.  The  decanters  were  put  on  a  table 
near  at  hand.  Isabel  knocked  the  logs  on  the  fire,  and 
clouds  of  brilliant  sparks  went  up  the  chimney.  Bertie 
noticed  a  slight  weariness  in  her  bearing. 

"You  will  be  glad  when  your  child  comes  now,  Isabel?" 
he  said. 


THE  BLIND  MAN  89 

She  looked  up  to  him  with  a  quick  wan  smile. 

"Yes,  I  shall  be  glad/'  she  answered.  "It  begins  to  seem 
long.  Yes,  I  ghall  be  very  glad.  So  will  you,  Maurice, 
won't  you?"  she  added. 

"Yes,  I  shall,"  replied  her  husband. 

"We  are  both  looking  forward  so  much  to  having  it," 
she  said. 

"Yes,  of  course,"  said  Bertie. 

He  was  a  bachelor,  three  or  four  years  older  than  Isabel. 
He  lived  in  beautiful  rooms  overlooking  the  river,  guarded 
by  a  faithful  Scottish  man-servant.  And  he  had  his  friends 
among  the  fair  sex — not  lovers,  friends.  So  long  as  he 
could  avoid  any  danger  of  courtship  or  marriage,  he 
adored  a  few  good  women  with  constant  and  unfailing 
homage,  and  he  was  chivalrously  fond  of  quite  a  number. 
But  if  they  seemed  to  encroach  on  him,  he  withdrew  and 
detested  them. 

Isabel  knew  him  very  well,  knew  his  beautiful  con- 
stancy, and  kindness,  also  his  incurable  weakness,  which 
made  him  imable  ever  to  enter  into  close  contact  of  any 
sort.  He  was  ashamed  of  himself,  because  he  could  not 
marry,  could  not  approach  women  physically.  He  wanted 
to  do  so.  But  he  could  not.  At  the  centre  of  him  he  was 
afraid,  helplessly  and  even  brutally  afraid.  He  had  given 
up  hope,  had  ceased  to  expect  any  more  that  he  could 
escape  his  own  weakness.  Hence  he  was  a  brilliant  and 
successful  barrister,  also  a  litterateur  of  high  repute,  a 
rich  man,  and  a  great  social  success.  At  the  centre  he  felt 
himself  neuter,  nothing. 

Isabel  knew  him  well.  She  despised  him  even  while 
she  admired  him.    She  looked  at  his  sad  face,  his  little 


90  THE  BLIND  MAN 

short  legs,  and  felt  contempt  of  him.  She  looked  at  his 
dark  grey  eyes,  with  their  uncanny,  almost  childlike  in- 
tuition, and  she  loved  him.  He  understood  amazingly — 
but  she  had  no  fear  of  his  understanding.  As  a  man  she 
patronised  him. 

And  she  turned  to  the  impassive,  silent  figure  of  her 
husband.  He  sat  leaning  back,  with  folded  arms,  and  face 
a  little  uptilted.  His  knees  were  straight  and  massive. 
She  sighed,  picked  up  the  poker,  and  again  began  to  prod 
the  fire,  to  rouse  the  clouds  of  soft  brilliant  sparks. 

"Isabel  tells  me,"  Bertie  began  suddenly,  "that  you 
have  not  suffered  unbearably  from  the  loss  of  sight." 

Maurice  straightened  himself  to  attend,  but  kept  his 
arms  folded. 

"No,"  he  said,  "not  unbearably.  Now  and  again  one 
struggles  against  it,  you  know.  But  there  are  compen- 
sations." 

"They  say  it  is  much  worse  to  be  stone  deaf,"  said 
Isabel. 

"I  believe  it  is,"  said  Bertie.  "Are  there  compensa- 
tions?" he  added,  to  Maurice. 

"Yes.  You  cease  to  bother  about  a  great  many  things." 
Again  Maurice  stretched  his  figure,  stretched  the  strong 
muscles  of  his  back,  and  leaned  backwards,  with  uplifted 
face. 

"And  that  is  a  relief,"  said  Bertie.  "But  what  is  there 
in  place  of  the  bothering?    What  replaces  the  activity?" 

There  was  a  pause.  At  length  the  blind  man  replied, 
as  out  of  a  negligent,  unattentive  thinking: 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  There's  a  good  deal  when  you're 
not  active." 


THE  BLIND  MAN  91 

"Is  there?"  said  Bertie.  *What,  exactly?  It  always 
seems  to  me  that  when  there  is  no  thought  and  no  action, 
there  is  nothing." 

Again  Maurice  was  slow  in  replying. 

"There  is  something,"  he  replied.  "I  couldn't  tell  you 
what  it  is." 

And  the  talk  lapsed  once  more,  Isabel  and  Bertie 
chatting  gossip  and  reminiscence,  the  blind  man  silent. 

At  length  Maurice  rose  restlessly,  a  big,  obtrusive  figure. 
He  felt  tight  and  hampered.    He  wanted  to  go  away. 

"Do  you  mind,"  he  said,  "if  I  go  and  speak  to  Wem- 
ham?" 

"No — ^go  along,  dear,"  said  Isabel. 

And  he  went  out.  A  silence  came  over  the  two  friends. 
At  length  Bertie  said: 

"Nevertheless,  it  is  a  great  deprivation,  Cissie." 

"It  is,  Bertie.    I  know  it  is." 

"Something  lacking  all  the  time,"  said  Bertie. 

"Yes,  I  know.  And  yet — ^and  yet — Maurice  is  right. 
There  is  something  else,  something  there,  which  you  never 
knew  was  there,  and  which  you  can't  express." 

"What  is  there?"  asked  Bertie. 

"I  don't  know — it's  awfully  hard  to  define  it — ^but  some- 
thing strong  and  immediate.  There's  something  strange  in 
Maurice's  presence — indefinable — ^but  I  couldn't  do  with- 
out it.  I  agree  that  it  seems  to  put  one's  mind  to  sleep. 
But  when  we're  alone  I  miss  nothing;  it  seems  awfully 
rich,  almost  splendid,  you  know." 

"I'm  afraid  I  don't  follow,"  said  Bertie. 

They  talked  desultorily.  The  wind  blew  loudly  out- 
side, rain  chattered  on  the  window-panes,  making  a  sharp 


92  THE  BLIND  MAN 

drum-sound,  because  of  the  closed,  mellow-golden  shutters 
inside.  The  logs  burned  slowly,  with  hot,  almost  invisible 
small  flames.  Bertie  seemed  uneasy,  there  were  dark 
circles  round  his  eyes.  Isabel,  rich  with  her  approaching 
maternity,  leaned  looking  into  the  fire.  Her  hair  curled  in 
odd,  loose  strands,  very  pleasing  to  the  man.  But  she  had 
a  curious  feeling  of  old  woe  in  her  heart,  old,  timeless 
night-woe. 

"I  suppose  we're  all  deficient  somewhere,"  said  Bertie. 

"I  suppose  so,"  said  Isabel  wearily. 

"Damned,  sooner  or  later." 

"I  don't  know,"  she  said,  rousing  herself.  "I  feel 
quite  all  right,  you  know.  The  child  coming  seems  to 
make  me  indifferent  to  everything,  just  placid.  I  can't 
feel  that  there's  anything  to  trouble  about,  you  know." 

"A  good  thing,  I  should  say,"  he  replied  slowly. 

"Well,  there  it  is.  I  suppose  it's  just  Nature.  If  only 
I  felt  I  needn't  trouble  about  Maurice,  I  should  be  per- 
fectly content " 

"But  you  feel  you  must  trouble  about  him?" 

"Well — ^I  don't  know "     She  even  resented  this 

much  effort. 

The  night  passed  slowly.  Isabel  looked  at  the  clock. 
"I  say,"  she  said.  "It's  nearly  ten  o'clock.  Where  can 
Maurice  be?  I'm  sure  they're  all  in  bed  at  the  back. 
Excuse  me  a  moment." 

She  went  out,  returning  almost  immediately. 

"It's  all  shut  up  and  in  darkness,"  she  said.  "I  wonder 
where  he  is.    He  must  have  gone  out  to  the  farm " 

Bertie  looked  at  her. 

"I  suppose  he'll  come  in,"  he  said. 


THE  BLIND  MAN  93 

"I  suppose  so,"  she  said.  "But  it's  unusual  for  him  to 
be  out  now." 

"Would  you  like  me  to  go  out  and  see?" 

"Well— if  you  wouldn't  mind.    I'd  go,  but "    She 

did  not  want  to  make  the  physical  effort. 

Bertie  put  on  an  old  overcoat  and  took  a  lantern.  He 
went  out  from  the  side  door.  He  shrank  from  the  wet  and 
roaring  night.  Such  weather  had  a  nervous  effect  on  him: 
too  much  moisture  everywhere  made  him  feel  almost  im- 
becile. Unwilling,  he  went  through  it  all.  A  dog  barked 
violently  at  him.  He  peered  in  all  the  buildings.  At  last, 
as  he  opened  the  upper  door  of  a  sort  of  intermediate  bam, 
he  heard  a  grinding  noise,  and  looking  in,  holding  up  his 
lantern,  saw  Maurice,  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  standing  listen- 
ing, holding  the  handle  of  a  turnip-pulper.  He  had  been 
pulping  sweet  roots,  a  pile  of  which  lay  dimly  heaped  in 
a  corner  behind  him. 

"That  you,  Wernham?"  said  Maurice,  listening. 

"No,  it's  me,"  said  Bertie. 

A  large,  half-wild  grey  cat  was  rubbing  at  Maurice's  leg. 
The  blind  man  stooped  to  rub  its  sides.  Bertie  watched 
the  scene,  then  unconsciously  entered  and  shut  the  door 
behind  him.  He  was  in  a  high  sort  of  barn-place,  from 
which,  right  and  left,  ran  off  the  corridors  in  front  of  the 
stalled  cattle.  He  watched  the  slow,  stooping  motion  of 
the  other  man,  as  he  caressed  the  great  cat. 

Maurice  straightened  himself. 

"You  came  to  look  for  me?"  he  said. 

"Isabel  was  a  little  uneasy,"  said  Bertie. 

"I'll  come  in.    I  like  messing  about  doing  these  jobs." 

The  cat  had  reared  her  sinister,  feline  length  against  bis 


94  THE  BLIND  MAN 

leg,  clawing  at  his  thigh  affectionately.  He  lifted  her  claws 
out  of  his  flesh. 

"I  hope  I'm  not  in  your  way  at  all  at  the  Grange  here," 
said  Bertie,  rather  shy  and  stiff. 

"My  way?  No,  not  a  bit.  I'm  glad  Isabel  has  some- 
body to  talk  to.  I'm  afraid  it's  I  who  am  in  the  way.  I 
know  I'm  not  very  lively  company.  Isabel's  all  right, 
don't  you  think?    She's  not  unhappy,  is  she?" 

"I  don't  think  so." 

"What  does  she  say?" 

"She  says  she's  very  content — only  a  little  troubled 
about  you." 

"Why  me?" 

"Perhaps  afraid  that  you  might  brood,"  said  Bertie, 
cautiously. 

"She  needn't  be  afraid  of  that."  He  continued  to 
caress  the  flattened  grey  head  of  the  cat  with  his  fingers. 
"What  I  am  a  bit  afraid  of,"  he  resumed,  "is  that  she'll 
find  me  a  dead  weight,  always  alone  with  me  down  here." 

"I  don't  think  you  need  think  that,"  said  Bertie,  though 
this  was  what  he  feared  himself. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Maurice.  "Sometimes  I  feel  it 
isn't  fair  that  she's  saddled  with  me."  Then  he  dropped 
his  voice  curiously.  "I  say,"  he  asked,  secretly  struggling, 
"is  my  face  much  disfigured?    Do  you  mind  telling  me?" 

"There  is  the  scar,"  said  Bertie,  wondering.  "Yes,  it 
is  a  disfigurement.    But  more  pitiable  than  shocking." 

"A  pretty  bad  scar,  though,"  said  Maurice. 

"Oh,  yes." 

There  was  a  pause. 

"Sometimes  I  feel  I  am  horrible,"  said  Maurice,  in  a 


THE  BLIND  MAN  95 

low  voice,  talking  as  if  to  himself.  And  Bertie  actually  felt 
a  quiver  of  horror. 

"That's  nonsense,"  he  said, 

Maurice  again  straightened  himself,  leaving  the  cat. 

^'There's  no  telling,"  he  said.  Then  again,  in  an  odd 
tone,  he  added:    "I  don't  really  know  you,  do  I?" 

"Probably  not,"  said  Bertie. 

"Do  you  mind  if  I  touch  you?" 

The  lawyer  shrank  away  instinctively.  And  yet,  out  of 
very  philanthropy,  he  said,  in  a  small  voice:    "Not  at  all." 

But  he  suffered  as  the  blind  man  stretched  out  a  strong, 
naked  hand  to  him.  Maurice  accidentally  knocked  off 
Bertie's  hat. 

"I  thought  you  were  taller,"  he  said,  starting.  Then  he 
laid  his  hand  on  Bertie  Reid's  head,  closing  the  dome  of 
the  skull  in  a  soft,  firm  grasp,  gathering  it,  as  it  were;  then, 
shifting  his  grasp  and  softly  closing  again,  with  a  fine,  dose 
pressure,  till  he  had  covered  the  skull  and  the  face  of  the 
smaller  man,  tracing  the  brows,  and  touching  the  full, 
closed  eyes,  touching  the  small  nose  and  the  nostrils,  the 
rough,  short  moustache,  the  mouth,  the  rather  strong  chin. 
The  hand  of  the  blind  man  grasped  the  shoulder,  the  arm, 
the  hand  of  the  other  man.  He  seemed  to  take  him,  in  the 
soft,  travelling  grasp. 

"You  seem  young,"  he  said  quietly,  at  last. 

The  lawyer  stood  almost  annihilated,  unable  to  answer. 

"Your  head  seems  tender,  as  if  you  were  young," 
Maurice  repeated.  "So  do  your  hands.  Touch  my  eyes, 
will  you? — touch  my  scar." 

Now  Bertie  quivered  with  revulsion.  Yet  he  was  under 
the  power  of  the  blind  man,  as  if  hypnotised.   He  lifted  his 


96  THE  BLIND  MAN 

hand,  and  laid  the  fingers  on  the  scar,  on  the  scarred  eyes. 
Maurice  suddenly  covered  them  with  his  own  hand, 
pressed  the  fingers  of  the  other  man  upon  his  disfigured 
eye-sockets,  trembling  in  every  fibre,  and  rocking  slightly, 
slowly,  from  side  to  side.  He  remained  thus  for  a  minute 
or  more,  whilst  Bertie  stood  as  if  in  a  swoon,  unconscious, 
imprisoned. 

Then  suddenly  Maurice  removed  the  hand  of  the  other 
man  from  his  brow,  and  stood  holding  it  in  his  own. 

"Oh,  my  God,"  he  said,  "we  shall  know  each  other 
now,  shan't  we?    We  shall  know  each  other  now." 

Bertie  could  not  answer.  He  gazed  mute  and  terror- 
struck,  overcome  by  his  own  weakness.  He  knew  he  could 
not  answer.  He  had  an  unreasonable  fear,  lest  the  other 
man  should  suddenly  destroy  him.  Whereas  Maurice  was 
actually  filled  with  hot,  poignant  love,  the  passion  of 
friendship.  Perhaps  it  was  this  very  passion  of  friendship 
which  Bertie  shrank  from  most. 

"We're  all  right  together  now,  aren't  we?"  said  Maurice. 
**It's  all  right  now,  as  long  as  we  live,  so  far  as  we're 
concerned?" 

"Yes,"  said  Bertie,  trying  by  any  means  to  escape. 

Maurice  stood  with  head  lifted,  as  if  listening.  The 
new  delicate  fulfilment  of  mortal  friendship  had  come  as  a 
revelation  and  surprise  to  him,  something  exquisite  and 
unhoped-for.  He  seemed  to  be  listening  to  hear  if  it 
were  real. 

Then  he  turned  for  his  coat. 

"Come,"  he  said,  "we'll  go  to  Isabel." 

Bertie  took  the  lantern  and  opened  the  door.  The  cat 
disappeared.     The  two  men  went  in  silence  along  the 


THE  BLIND  MAN  97 

causeways.  Isabel,  as  they  came,  thought  their  footsteps 
sounded  strange.  She  looked  up  pathetically  and 
anxiously  for  their  entrance.  There  seemed  a  curious 
elation  about  Maurice.  Bertie  was  haggard,  with  sunken 
eyes. 

"What  is  it?"  she  asked. 

"We've  become  friends,"  said  Maurice,  standing  with 
his  feet  apart,  like  a  strange  colossus. 

" Friends  1"  re-echoed  Isabel.  And  she  looked  again 
at  Bertie.  He  met  her  eyes  with  a  furtive,  haggard  look; 
his  eyes  were  as  if  glazed  with  misery. 

"I'm  so  glad,"  she  said,  in  sheer  perplexity. 

"Yes,"  said  Maurice. 

He  was  indeed  so  glad.  Isabel  took  his  hand  with  both 
hers,  and  held  it  fast. 

"Youll  be  happier  now,  dear,"  she  said. 

But  she  was  watching  Bertie.  She  knew  that  he  had 
one  desire — ^to  escape  from  this  intimacy,  this  friendship, 
which  had  been  thrust  upon  him.  He  could  not  bear  it 
that  he  had  been  touched  by  the  blind  man,  his  insane 
reserve  broken  in.  He  was  like  a  mollusc  whose  shell  is 
broken. 


MONKEY  NUTS 


MONKEY  NUTS 

At  first  Joe  thought  the  job  O.  K.  He  was  loading 
hay  on  the  trucks,  along  with  Albert,  the  corporal.  The 
two  men  were  pleasantly  billeted  in  a  cottage  not  far 
from  the  station,  they  were  their  own  masters:  for  Joe 
never  thought  of  Albert  as  a  master.  And  the  little 
sidings  of  the  tiny  village  station  was  as  pleasant  a  place 
as  you  could  wish  for.  On  one  side,  beyond  the  line, 
stretched  the  woods:  on  the  other,  the  near  side,  across 
a  green  smooth  field  red  houses  were  dotted  among 
flowering  apple  trees.  The  weather  being  sunny,  work 
being  easy,  Albert,  a  real  good  pal,  what  life  could  be 
better!     After  Flanders,  it  was  heaven  itself. 

Albert,  the  corporal,  was  a  clean-shaven,  shrewd-look- 
ing fellow  of  about  forty.  He  seemed  to  think  his  one  aim 
in  life  was  to  be  full  of  fun  and  nonsense.  In  repose,  his 
face  looked  a  little  withered,  old.  He  was  a  very  good  pal 
to  Joe,  steady,  decent  and  grave  under  all  his  "mischief"; 
for  his  mischief  was  only  his  laborious  way  of  skirting  his 
own  ennui. 

Joe  was  much  younger  than  Albert — only  twenty-three. 
He  was  a  tallish,  quiet  youth,  pleasant  looking.  He  was 
of  slightly  better  class  than  his  corporal,  more  personable. 
Careful  about  his  appearance,  he  shaved  every  day.  "I 
haven't  got  much  of  a  face,"  said  Albert.  "If  I  was  to 
shave  every  day  like  you,  Joe,  I  should  have  none." 

There  was  plenty  of  life  in  the  little  goods-yard:  three 

lOI 


102  MONKEY  NUTS 

porter  youths,  a  continual  come  and  go  of  farm  wagons 
bringing  hay,  wagons  with  timber  from  the  woods,  coal 
carts  loading  at  the  trucks.  The  black  coal  seemed  to 
make  the  place  sleepier,  hotter.  Round  the  big  white 
gate  the  station-master's  children  played  and  his  white 
chickens  walked,  whilst  the  station  master  himself,  a 
young  man  getting  too  fat,  helped  his  wife  to  peg  out  the 
washing  on  the  clothes  line  in  the  meadow. 

The  great  boat-shaped  wagons  came  up  from  Playcross 
\dth  the  hay.  At  first  the  farm-men  waggoned  it.  On  the 
third  day  one  of  the  land-girls  appeared  with  the  first  load, 
drawing  to  a  standstill  easily  at  the  head  of  her  two 
great  horses.  She  was  a  buxom  girl,  young,  in  linen  over- 
alls and  gaiters.  Her  face  was  ruddy,  she  had  large  blue 
eyes. 

"Now  that's  the  waggoner  for  us,  boys,"  said  the  cor- 
poral loudly. 

"Whoa!"  she  said  to  her  horses;  and  then  to  the  cor- 
poral:    "Which  boys  do  you  mean?" 

"We  are  the  pick  of  the  bunch.  That's  Joe,  my  pal. 
— Don't  you  let  on  that  my  name's  Albert,"  said  the  cor- 
poral to  his  private.    "I'm  the  corporal." 

"And  I'm  Miss  Stokes,"  said  the  land-girl  coolly,  "if 
that's  all  the  boys  you  are." 

"You  know  you  couldn't  want  more.  Miss  Stokes,"  said 
Albert  politely.  Joe,  who  was  bare-headed,  whose  grey 
flannel  sleeves  were  rolled  up  to  the  elbow,  and  whose 
shirt  was  open  at  the  breast,  looked  modestly  aside  as  if 
he  had  no  part  in  the  affair. 

"Are  you  on  this  job  regular,  then?"  said  the  corporal 
to  Miss  Stokes. 


MONKEY  NUTS  103 

"I  don't  know  for  sure,"  she  said,  pushing  a  piece  of 
hair  under  her  hat,  and  attending  to  her  splendid  horses. 

"Oh,  make  it  a  certainty,"  said  Albert. 

She  did  not  reply.  She  turned  and  looked  over  the  two 
men  coolly.  She  was  pretty,  moderately  blonde,  with  crisp 
hair,  a  good  skin,  and  large  blue  eyes.  She  was  strong, 
too,  and  the  work  went  on  leisurely  and  easily. 

"Now!"  said  the  corporal,  stopping  as  usual  to  look 
round,  "pleasant  company  makes  work  a  pleasure — don't 
hurry  it,  boys,"  He  stood  on  the  truck  surveying  the 
world.  That  was  one  of  his  great  and  absorbing  occupa- 
tions: to  stand  and  look  out  on  things  in  general.  Joe, 
also  standing  on  the  truck,  also  turned  round  to  look  what 
was  to  be  seen.  But  he  could  not  become  blankly  ab- 
sorbed, as  Albert  could. 

Miss  Stokes  watched  the  two  men  from  under  her  broad 
felt  halt.  She  had  seen  hundreds  of  Alberts,  khaki  soldiers 
standing  in  loose  attitudes  absorbed  in  watching  nothing 
in  particular.  She  had  seen  also  a  good  many  Joes,  quiet, 
good-looking  young  soldiers  with  half-averted  faces.  But 
there  was  something  in  the  turn  of  Joe's  head,  and  some- 
thing in  his  quiet,  tender-looking  form,  young  and  fresh — 
which  attracted  her  eye.  As  she  watched  him  closely 
from  below,  he  turned  as  if  he  felt  her,  and  his  dark-blue 
eye  met  her  straight,  light-blue  gaze.  He  faltered  and 
turned  aside  again  and  looked  as  if  he  were  going  to  fall 
off  the  truck.  A  slight  flush  moimted  under  the  girl's  full, 
ruddy  face.    She  liked  him. 

Always,  after  this,  when  she  came  into  the  sidings  with 
her  team,  it  was  Joe  she  looked  for.  She  acknowledged  to 
herself  that  she  was  sweet  on  him.    But  Albert  did  all  the 


I04  MONKEY  NUTS 

talking,  He  was  so  full  of  fun  and  nonsense.  Joe  was 
a  very  shy  bird,  very  brief  and  remote  in  his  answers. 
Miss  Stokes  was  driven  to  indulge  in  repartee  with  Albert, 
but  she  fixed  her  magnetic  attention  on  the  younger  fellow. 
Joe  would  talk  with  Albert,  and  laugh  at  his  jokes.  But 
Miss  Stokes  could  get  little  out  of  him.  She  had  to  depend 
on  her  silent  forces.  They  were  more  effective  than  might 
be  imagined. 

Suddenly,  on  Saturday  afternoon,  at  about  two  o'clock, 
Joe  received  a  bolt  from  the  blue — a.  telegram:  "Meet  me 
Belbury  Station  6.00  p.  m.  to-day.  M.  S."  He  knew  at 
once  who  M.  S.  was.  His  heart  melted,  he  felt  weak  as 
if  he  had  had  a  blow. 

* 'What's  the  trouble,  boy?"  asked  Albert  anxiously. 

"No — no  trouble — it's  to  meet  somebody."  Joe  lifted 
his  dark-blue  eyes  in  confusion  towards  his  corporal. 

"Meet  somebody!"  repeated  the  corporal,  watching  his 
young  pal  with  keen  blue  eyes.  "It's  all  right,  then;  noth- 
ing wrong?" 

"No — ^nothing  wrong.     I'm  not  going,"  said  Joe. 

Albert  was  old  and  shrewd  enough  to  see  that  nothing 
more  should  be  said  before  the  housewife.  He  also  saw 
that  Joe  did  not  want  to  take  him  into  confidence.  So  he 
held  his  peace,  though  he  was  piqued. 

The  two  soldiers  went  into  town,  smartened  up.  Albert 
knew  a  fair  number  of  the  boys  round  about;  there  would 
be  plenty  of  gossip  in  the  market-place,  plenty  of  lounging 
in  groups  on  the  Bath  Road,  watching  the  Saturday  eve- 
ning shoppers.  Then  a  modest  drink  or  two,  and  the 
movies.  They  passed  an  agreeable,  casual,  nothing-in- 
particular  evening,  with  which  Joe  was  quite  satisfied.    He 


MONKEY  NUTS  105 

thought  of  Belbury  Station,  and  of  M.  S.  waiting  there. 
He  had  not  the  faintest  intention  of  meeting  her.  And  he 
had  not  the  faintest  intention  of  telling  Albert. 

And  yet,  when  the  two  men  were  in  their  bedroom,  half 
undressed,  Joe  suddenly  held  out  the  telegram  to  his  cor- 
poral, saying:  "What  d^ou  think  of  that?" 

Albert  was  just  unbuttoning  his  braces.  He  desisted, 
took  the  telegram  form,  and  turned  towards  the  candle  to 
read  it. 

"Meet  me  Belbury  Station  6.00  p,  m.  to-day,  M,  5/' 
he  read,  sotto  voce.  His  face  took  on  its  f un-and-nonsense 
look. 

"Who's  M.  S.?"  he  asked,  looking  shrewdly  at  Joe. 

"You  know  as  well  as  I  do,"  said  Joe,  non-committal. 

"M,  5./'  repeated  Albert.  "Blamed  if  I  know,  boy.  Is 
it  a  woman?" 

The  conversation  was  carried  on  in  tiny  voices,  for  fear 
of  disturbing  the  householders. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Joe,  turning.  He  looked  full  at 
Albert,  the  two  men  looked  straight  into  each  other's  eyes. 
There  was  a  lurking  grin  in  each  of  them. 

"Well,  I'm — blamed!''  said  Albert  at  last,  throwing  the 
telegram  down  emphatically  on  the  bed. 

"Wha — ^at?"  said  Joe,  grinning  rather  sheepishly,  his 
eyes  clouded  none  the  less. 

Albert  sat  on  the  bed  and  proceeded  to  undress,  nod- 
ding his  head  with  mock  gravity  all  the  while.  Joe 
watched  him  foolishly. 

"What?"  he  repeated  faintly. 

Albert  looked  up  at  with  with  a  knowing  look. 

/ 


io6  MONKEY  NUTS 

"If  that  isn't  coining  it  quick,  boy  I"  he  said.  "What 
the  blazes  I    What  ha'  you  bin  doing?" 

"Nothing! "  said  Joe. 

Albert  slowly  shook  his  head  as  he  sat  on  the  side  of 
the  bed. 

"Don't  happen  to  me  when  Vve  bin  doin'  nothing,"  he 
said.    And  he  proceeded  to  pull  off  his  stockings. 

Joe  turned  away,  looking  at  himself  in  the  mirror  as  he 
unbuttoned  his  tunic. 

"You  didn't  want  to  keep  the  appointment?"  Albert 
asked,  in  a  changed  voice,  from  the  bedside. 

Joe  did  not  answer  for  a  moment.     Then  he  said: 

"I  made  no  appointment." 

"I'm  not  saying  you  did,  boy.  Don't  be  nasty  about  it. 
I  mean  you  didn't  want  to  answer  the — ^unknown  person's 
summons — shall  I  put  it  that  way?" 

"No,"  said  Joe. 

"What  was  the  deterring  motive?"  asked  Albert,  who 
was  now  lying  on  his  back  in  bed. 

"Oh,"  said  Joe,  suddenly  looking  round  rather  haughtily. 
"I  didn't  want  to."  He  had  a  well-balanced  head,  and 
could  take  on  a  sudden  distant  bearing. 

"Didn't  want  to — didn't  cotton  on,  like.  Well — they  be 
artful,  the  women — "  he  mimicked  his  landlord.  "Come 
on  into  bed,  boy.  Don't  loiter  about  as  if  you'd  lost 
something." 

Albert  turned  over,  to  sleep. 

On  Monday  Miss  Stokes  turned  up  as  usual,  striding 
beside  her  team.  Her  "whoa!"  was  resonant  and  chal- 
lenging;  she  looked  up  at  the  truck  as  her  steeds  came  to 
a  standstill.     Joe  had  turned  aside,  and  had  his  face 


MONKEY  NUTS  107 

averted  from  her.  She  glanced  him  over — ^save  for  his 
slender  succulent  tenderness  she  would  have  despised  him. 
She  sized  him  up  in  a  steady  look.  Then  she  turned  to 
Albert,  who  was  looking  down  at  her  and  smiling  in  his 
mischievous  turn.  She  knew  his  aspects  by  now.  She 
looked  straight  back  at  him,  though  her  eyes  were  hot. 
He  saluted  her. 

"Beautiful  morning,  Miss  Stokes." 

"Very! "  she  replied. 

"Handsome  is  as  handsome  looks,"  said  Albert. 

Which  produced  no  response. 

"Now,  Joe,  come  on  here,"  said  the  corporal.  "Don't 
keep  the  ladies  waiting — it's  the  sign  of  a  weak  heart." 

Joe  turned,  and  the  work  began.  Nothing  more  was 
said  for  the  time  being.  As  the  week  went  on,  all  parties 
became  more  comfortable.  Joe  remained  silent,  averted, 
neutral,  a  little  on  his  dignity.  Miss  Stokes  was  off-hand 
and  masterful.    Albert  was  full  of  mischief. 

The  great  theme  was  a  circus,  which  was  coming  to  the 
market  town  on  the  following  Saturday. 

"You'll  go  to  the  circus,  Miss  Stokes?"  said  Albert. 

"I  may  go.     Are  you  going?" 

"Certainly.    Give  us  the  pleasure  of  escorting  you." 

"No,  thanks." 

"That's  what  I  call  a  flat  refusal — ^what,  Joe?  You 
don't  mean  that  you  have  no  liking  for  our  company,  Miss 
Stokes?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  said  Miss  Stokes.  "How  many  are 
there  of  you?" 

"Only  me  and  Joe." 

"Oh,  is  that  all?"  she  said,  satirically. 


io8  MONKEY  NUTS 

Albert  was  a  little  nonplussed. 

"Isn't  that  enough  for  you?"  he  asked. 

"Too  many  by  half,"  blurted  out  Joe,  jeeringly,  in  a 
sudden  fit  of  uncouth  rudeness  that  made  both  the  others 
stare. 

"Oh,  I'll  stand  out  of  the  way,  boy,  if  that's  it,"  said 
Albert  to  Joe.  Then  he  turned  mischievously  to  Miss 
Stokes.  "He  wants  to  know  what  M.  stands  for,"  he  said, 
confidentially. 

"Monkeys,"  she  replied,  turning  to  her  horses. 

"What's  M.  S.?"  said  Albert. 

"Monkey-nuts,"  she  retorted,  leading  off  her  team. 

Albert  looked  after  her  a  little  discomfited.  Joe  had 
flushed  dark,  and  cursed  Albert  in  his  heart. 

On  the  Saturday  afternoon  the  two  soldiers  took  the 
train  into  town.  They  would  have  to  walk  home.  They 
had  tea  at  six  o'clock,  and  lounged  about  till  half-past 
seven.  The  circus  was  in  a  meadow  near  the  river — a, 
great  red-and-white  striped  tent.  Caravans  stood  at  the 
side.  A  great  crowd  of  people  was  gathered  round  the 
ticket-caravan. 

Inside  the  tent  the  lamps  were  lighted,  shining  on  a  ring 
of  faces,  a  great  circular  bank  of  faces  round  the  green 
grassy  centre.  Along  with  some  comrades,  the  two  sol- 
diers packed  themselves  on  a  thin  plank  seat,  rather  high. 
They  were  delighted  with  the  flaring  lights,  the  wild  effect. 
But  the  circus  performance  did  not  affect  them  deeply. 
They  admired  the  lady  in  black  velvet  with  rose-purple 
legs  who  leapt  so  neatly  on  to  the  galloping  horse;  they 
watched  the  feats  of  strength  and  laughed  at  the  clown. 


MONKEY  NUTS  109 

But  they  felt  a  little  patronising,  they  missed  the  sensa- 
tional drama  of  the  cinema. 

Half-way  through  the  performance  Joe  was  electrified  to 
see  the  face  of  Miss  Stokes  not  very  far  from  him.  There 
she  was,  in  her  khaki  and  her  felt  hat,  as  usual;  he  pre- 
tended not  to  see  her.  She  was  laughing  at  the  clown: 
she  also  pretended  not  to  see  him.  It  was  a  blow  to  him, 
and  it  made  him  angry.  He  would  not  even  mention  it  to 
Albert.  Least  said,  soonest  mended.  He  liked  to  believe 
she  had  not  seen  him.    But  he  knew,  fatally,  that  she  had. 

When  they  came  out  it  was  nearly  eleven  o^clock;  a 
lovely  night,  with  a  moon  and  tall,  dark  noble  trees:  a 
magnificent  May  night.  Joe  and  Albert  laughed  and 
chaffed  with  the  boys.  Joe  looked  round  frequently  to  see 
if  he  were  safe  from  Miss  Stokes.    It  seemed  so. 

But  there  were  six  miles  to  walk  home.  At  last  the  two 
soldiers  set  off,  swinging  their  canes.  The  road  was  white 
between  tall  hedges,  other  stragglers  were  passing  out  of 
the  town  towards  the  villages;  the  air  was  full  of  pleased 
excitement. 

They  were  drawing  near  to  the  village,  when  they  saw  a 
dark  figure  ahead.  Joe's  heart  sank  with  pure  fear.  It 
was  a  figure  wheeling  a  bicycle;  a  land  girl;  Miss  Stokes. 
Albert  was  ready  with  his  nonsense.  Miss  Stokes  had  a 
puncture. 

"Let  me  wheel  the  rattler,*'  said  Albert. 

•Thank  you,"  said  Miss  Stokes.    "You  are  kind." 

"Oh,  I'd  be  kinder  than  that,  if  you'd  show  me  how," 
said  Albert. 

"Are  you  sure?"  said  Miss  Stokes. 


no  MONKEY  NUTS 

"Doubt  my  words?"  said  Albert.  "That^s  cruel  of  you, 
Miss  Stokes." 

Miss  Stokes  walked  between  them,  close  to  Joe. 

"Have  you  been  to  the  circus?"  she  asked  him. 

"Yes,"  he  replied,  mildly. 

"Have  you  been?"  Albert  asked  her. 

"Yes.    I  didn't  see  you,"  she  replied. 

"What! — ^you  say  so!  Didn't  see  us!  Didn't  think 
us  worth  looking  at,"  began  Albert.  "Aren't  I  as  hand- 
some as  the  clown,  now?  And  you  didn't  as  much  as 
glance  in  our  direction?    I  call  it  a  downright  oversight." 

"I  never  saw  you,"  reiterated  Miss  Stokes.  "I  didn't 
know  you  saw  me." 

"That  makes  it  worse,"  said  Albert. 

The  road  passed  through  a  belt  of  dark  pine-wood. 
The  village,  and  the  branch  road,  was  very  near.  Miss 
Stokes  put  out  her  fingers  and  felt  for  Joe's  hand  as  it 
swung  at  his  side.  To  say  he  was  staggered  is  to  put  it 
mildly.  Yet  he  allowed  her  softly  to  clasp  his  fingers  for 
a  few  moments.    But  he  was  a  mortified  youth. 

At  the  cross-road  they  stopped — Miss  Stokes  should 
turn  off.    She  had  another  mile  to  go. 

"You'll  let  us  see  you  home,"  said  Albert. 

"Do  me  a  kindness,"  she  said.  "Put  my  bike  in  your 
shed,  and  take  it  to  Baker's  on  Monday,  will  you?" 

"I'll  sit  up  all  night  and  mend  it  for  you,  if  you  like." 

"No  thanks.    And  Joe  and  I'll  walk  on." 

"Oh— ho!  Oh—ho!"  sang  Albert.  "Joe!  Joe!  What 
do  you  say  to  that,  now,  boy?  Aren't  you  in  luck's  way? 
And  I  get  the  bloomin'  old  bike  for  my  pal.  Consider  it 
again,  Miss  Stokes." 


MONKEY  NUTS  in 

Joe  turned  aside  his  face,  and  did  not  speak. 

"Oh,  well  I  I  wheel  the  grid,  do  I?  I  leave  you, 
boy " 

"I'm  not  keen  on  going  any  further,"  barked  out  Joe,  in 
an  uncouth  voice.    "She  bain't  my  choice." 

The  girl  stood  silent,  and  watched  the  two  men. 

"There  now! "  said  Albert.  "Think  o'  that!  If  it  was 
me  now — "  But  he  was  uncomfortable.  "Well,  Miss 
Stokes,  have  me,"  he  added. 

Miss  Stokes  stood  quite  still,  neither  moved  nor  spoke. 
And  so  the  three  remained  for  some  time  at  the  lane  end. 
At  last  Joe  began  kicking  the  ground — then  he  suddenly 
lifted  his  face.  At  that  moment  Miss  Stokes  was  at  his 
side.    She  put  her  arm  delicately  round  his  waist. 

"Seems  I'm  the  one  extra,  don't  you  think?"  Albert  in- 
quired of  the  high  bland  moon. 

Joe  had  dropped  his  head  and  did  not  answer.  Miss 
Stokes  stood  with  her  arm  lightly  round  his  waist.  Albert 
bowed,  saluted,  and  bade  good-night.  He  walked  away, 
leaving  the  two  standing. 

Miss  Stokes  put  a  light  presssure  on  Joe's  waist,  and 
drew  him  down  the  road.  They  walked  in  silence.  The 
night  was  full  of  scent — ^wild  cherry,  the  first  bluebells. 
Still  they  walked  in  silence.  A  nightingale  was  singing. 
They  approached  nearer  and  nearer,  till  they  stood  close 
by  his  dark  bush.  The  powerful  notes  sounded  from  the 
cover,  almost  like  flashes  of  light — then  the  interval  of 
silence — then  the  moaning  notes,  almost  like  a  dog  faintly 
howling,  followed  by  the  long,  rich  trill,  and  flashing  notes. 
Then  a  short  silence  again. 

Miss  Stokes  turned  at  last  to  Joe.    She  looked  up  at 


112  MONKEY  NUTS 

him,  and  in  the  moonlight  he  saw  her  faintly  smiling.  He 
felt  maddened ,  but  helpless ,  Her  arm  was  round  his  waist, 
she  drew  him  closely  to  her  with  a  soft  pressure  that  made 
all  his  bones  rotten. 

Meanwhile  Albert  was  waiting  at  home.  He  put  on  his 
overcoat,  for  the  fire  was  out,  and  he  had  had  malarial 
fever.  He  looked  fitfully  at  the  Daily  Mirror  and  the 
Daily  Sketch,  but  he  saw  nothing.  It  seemed  a  long  time. 
He  began  to  yawn  widely,  even  to  nod.  At  last  Joe 
came  in. 

Albert  looked  at  him  keenly.  The  young  man's  brow 
was  black,  his  face  sullen. 

"All  right,  boy?"  asked  Albert. 

Joe  merely  grunted  for  a  reply.  There  was  nothing 
more  to  be  got  out  of  him.    So  they  went  to  bed. 

Next  day  Joe  was  silent,  sullen.  Albert  could  make 
nothing  of  him.   He  proposed  a  walk  after  tea. 

"I'm  going  somewhere,"  said  Joe. 

"Where — Monkey-nuts?"  asked  the  corporal.  But 
Joe's  brow  only  became  darker. 

So  the  days  went  by.  Almost  every  evening  Joe  went 
off  alone,  returning  late.  He  was  sullen,  taciturn  and  had 
a  hang-dog  look,  a  curious  way  of  dropping  his  head  and 
looking  dangerously  from  under  his  brows.  And  he  and 
Albert  did  not  get  on  so  well  any  more  with  one  another. 
For  all  his  fun  and  nonsense,  Albert  was  really  irritable, 
soon  made  angry.  And  Joe's  stand-offish  sulkiness  and 
complete  lack  of  confidence  riled  him,  got  on  his  nerves. 
His  fun  and  nonsense  took  a  biting,  sarcastic  turn,  at 
which  Joe's  eyes  glittered  occasionally,  though  the  young 


MONKEY  NUTS  113 

man  turned  unheeding  aside.    Then  again  Joe  would  be 
full  of  odd,  whimsical  fun,  outshining  Albert  himself. 

Miss  Stokes  still  came  to  the  station  with  the  wain: 
Monkey-nuts,  Albert  called  her,  though  not  to  her  face. 
For  she  was  very  clear  and  good-looking,  almost  she 
seemed  to  gleam.  And  Albert  was  a  tiny  bit  afraid  of  her. 
She  very  rarely  addressed  Joe  whilst  the  hay-loading  was 
going  on,  and  that  young  man  always  turned  his  back  to 
her.  He  seemed  thinner,  and  his  limber  figure  looked  more 
slouching.  But  still  it  had  the  tender,  attractive  appear- 
ance, especially  from  behind.  His  tanned  face,  a  little 
thinned  and  darkened,  took  a  handsome,  slightly  sinister 
look. 

"Come  on,  Joe  I "  the  corporal  urged  sharply  one  day. 
"What're  you  doing,  boy?  Looking  for  beetles  on  the 
bank?" 

Joe  turned  round  swiftly,  almost  menacing,  to  work. 

"He's  a  different  fellow  these  days.  Miss  Stokes,"  said 
Albert  to  the  young  woman.  "What's  got  him?  Is  it 
Monkey-nuts  that  don't  suit  him,  do  you  think?" 

"Choked  with  chaff,  more  like,"  she  retorted.  "It's  as 
bad  as  feeding  a  threshing  machine,  to  have  to  listen  to 
some  folks." 

"As  bad  as  what?"  said  Albert.  "You  don't  mean  me, 
do  you.  Miss  Stokes?" 

"No,"  she  cried.    "I  don't  mean  you." 

Joe's  face  became  dark  red  during  these  sallies,  but  he 
said  nothing.  He  would  eye  the  young  woman  curiously, 
as  she  swung  so  easily  at  the  work,  and  he  had  some  of 
the  look  of  a  dog  which  is  going  to  bite. 

Albert,  with  his  nerves  on  edge,  began  to  find  the  strain 


114  MONKEY  NUTS 

rather  severe.  The  next  Saturday  evening,  when  Joe  came 
in  more  black-browed  than  ever,  he  watched  him,  deter- 
mined to  have  it  out  with  him. 

When  the  boy  went  upstairs  to  bed,  the  corporal  fol- 
lowed hinl.  He  closed  the  door  behind  him  carefully,  sat 
on  the  bed  and  watched  the  younger  man  undressing. 
And  for  once  he  spoke  in  a  natural  voice,  neither  chaffing 
nor  commanding. 

"What's  gone  wrong,  boy?" 

Joe  stopped  a  moment  as  if  he  had  been  shot.  Then  he 
went  on  unwinding  his  puttees,  and  did  not  answer  or 
look  up. 

"You  can  hear,  can't  you?"  said  Albert,  nettled. 

"Yes,  I  can  hear,"  said  Joe,  stooping  over  his  puttees 
till  his  face  was  purple. 

"Then  why  don't  you  answer?" 

Joe  sat  up.  He  gave  a  long,  sideways  look  at  the  cor- 
poral. Then  he  lifted  his  eyes  and  stared  at  a  crack  in 
the  ceiling. 

The  corporal  watched  these  movements  shrewdly. 

"And  then  what?"  he  asked,  ironically. 

Again  Joe  turned  and  stared  him  in  the  face.  The  cor- 
poral smiled  very  slightly,  but  kindly. 

"There'll  be  murder  done  one  of  these  days,"  said  Joe, 
in  a  quiet,  unimpassioned  voice. 

"So  long  as  it's  by  daylight — "  replied  Albert.  Then 
he  went  over,  sat  down  by  Joe,  put  his  hand  on  his  shoulder 
affectionately,  and  continued.  "What  is  it,  boy?  What's 
gone  wrong?    You  can  trust  me,  can't  you?" 

Joe  turned  and  looked  curiously  at  the  face  so  near  to 
his. 


MONKEY  NUTS  115 

"It's  nothing,  that's  all/'  he  said  laconically. 

Albert  frowned. 

"Then  who's  going  to  be  murdered? — and  who's  going 
to  do  the  murdering? — me  or  you — which  is  it,  boy?" 
He  smiled  gently  at  the  stupid  youth,  looking  straight  at 
him  all  the  while,  into  his  eyes.  Gradually  the  stupid, 
hunted,  glowering  look  died  out  of  Joe's  eyes.  He  turned 
his  head  aside,  gently,  as  one  rousing  from  a  spell. 

"I  don't  want  her,"  he  said,  with  fierce  resentment. 

"Then  you  needn't  have  her,"  said  Albert.  "What  do 
you  go  for,  boy?" 

But  it  wasn't  as  simple  as  all  that.   Joe  made  no  remark. 

"She's  a  smart-looking  girl.  What's  wrong  with  her, 
my  boy?  I  should  have  thought  you  were  a  lucky  chap, 
myself." 

"I  don't  want  'er,"  Joe  barked,  with  ferocity  and  resent- 
ment. 

"Then  tell  her  so  and  have  done,"  said  Albert.  He 
waited  awhile.  There  was  no  response.  "Why  don't 
you?"  he  added. 

"Because  I  don't,"  confessed  Joe,  sulkily. 

Albert  pondered — rubbed  his  head. 

"You're  too  soft-hearted,  that's  where  it  is,  boy.  You 
want  your  mettle  dipping  in  cold  water,  to  temper  it. 
You're  too  soft-hearted " 

He  laid  his  arm  affectionately  across  the  shoulders  of 
the  younger  man.  Joe  seemed  to  yield  a  little  towards 
him. 

"When  are  you  going  to  see  her  again?"  Albert  asked. 
For  a  long  time  there  was  no  answer. 


ii6  MONKEY  NUTS 

"When  is  it,  boy?"  persisted  the  softened  voice  of  the 
corporal. 

"To-morrow,"  confessed  Joe. 

"Then  let  me  go,"  said  Albert.    "Let  me  go,  will  you?" 

The  morrow  was  Sunday,  a  sunny  day,  but  a  cold  eve- 
ning. The  sky  was  grey,  the  new  foliage  very  green,  but 
the  air  was  chill  and  depressing.  Albert  walked  briskly 
down  the  white  road  towards  Beeley.  He  crossed  a  larch 
plantation,  and  followed  a  narrow  by-road,  where  blue 
speedwell  flowers  fell  from  the  banks  into  the  dust.  He 
walked  swinging  his  cane,  with  mixed  sensations.  Then 
having  gone  a  certain  length,  he  turned  and  began  to  walk 
in  the  opposite  direction. 

So  he  saw  a  young  woman  approaching  him.  She  was 
wearing  a  wide  hat  of  grey  straw,  and  a  loose,  swinging 
dress  of  nigger-grey  velvet.  She  walked  with  slow  inevita- 
bility. Albert  faltered  a  little  as  he  approached  her.  Then 
he  saluted  her,  and  his  roguish,  slightly  withered  skin 
flushed.    She  was  staring  straight  into  his  face. 

He  fell  in  by  her  side,  saying  impudently: 

"Not  so  nice  for  a  walk  as  it  was,  is  it?" 

She  only  stared  at  him.   He  looked  back  at  her. 

"YouVe  seen  me  before,  you  know,"  he  said,  grinning 
slightly.  "Perhaps  you  never  noticed  me.  Oh,  I'm  quite 
nice  looking,  in  a  quiet  way,  you  know.     What ?" 

But  Miss  Stokes  did  not  speak:  she  only  stared  with 
large,  icy  blue  eyes  at  him.  He  became  self-conscious, 
lifted  up  his  chin,  walked  with  his  nose  in  the  air,  and 
whistled  at  random.  So  they  went  down  the  quiet,  de- 
serted grey  lane.   He  was  whistling  the  air : 

"I'm  Gilbert,  the  filbert,  the  colonel  of  the  nuts." 


MONKEY  NUTS  117 

At  last  she  found  her  voice: 

"Where's  Joe?" 

"He  thought  you'd  like  a  change;  they  say  variety's  the 
salt  of  life — that's  why  I'm  mostly  in  pickle." 

"Where  is  he?" 

"Am  I  my  brother's  keeper?    He's  gone  his  own  ways." 

"Where?" 

"Nay,  how  am  I  to  know?  No  so  far  but  he'll  be  back 
for  supper." 

She  stopped  in  the  middle  of  the  lane.  He  stopped 
facing  her. 

"Where's  Joe?"  she  asked. 

He  struck  a  careless  attitude,  looked  down  the  road  this 
way  and  that,  lifted  his  eyebrows,  pushed  his  khaki  cap  on 
one  side,  and  answered: 

"He  is  not  conducting  the  service  to-night:  he  asked 
me  if  I'd  officiate." 

"Why  hasn't  he  come?" 

"Didn't  want  to,  I  expect.    /  wanted  to." 

She  stared  him  up  and  down,  and  he  felt  uncomfortable 
in  his  spine,  but  maintained  his  air  of  nonchalance.  Then 
she  turned  slowly  on  her  heel,  and  started  to  walk  back. 
The  corporal  went  at  her  side. 

"You're  not  going  back,  are  you?"  he  pleaded.  "Why, 
me  and  you,  we  should  get  on  like  a  house  on  fire." 

She  took  no  heed,  but  walked  on.  He  went  uncomfort- 
ably at  her  side,  making  his  funny  remarks  from  time  to 
time.  But  she  was  as  if  stone  deaf.  He  glanced  at  her, 
and  to  his  dismay  saw  the  tears  running  down  her  cheeks. 
He  stopped  suddenly,  and  pushed  back  his  cap. 

"I  say,  you  know — "  he  began. 


ii8  MONKEY  NUTS 

But  she  was  walking  on  like  an  automaton,  and  he  had 
to  hurry  after  her. 

She  never  spoke  to  him.  At  the  gate  of  her  farm  she 
walked  straight  in,  as  if  he  were  not  there.  He  watched 
her  disappear.  Then  he  turned  on  his  heel,  cursing 
silently,  puzzled,  lifting  off  his  cap  to  scratch  his  head. 

That  night,  when  they  were  in  bed,  he  remarked: 

"Say,  Joe,  boy;  strikes  me  you're  well-off  without 
Monkey-nuts.     Gord  love  us,  beans  ain't  in  it." 

So  they  slept  in  amity.  But  they  waited  with  some 
anxiety  for  the  morrow. 

It  was  a  cold  morning,  a  grey  sky  shifting  in  a  cold 
wind,  and  threatening  rain.  They  watched  the  wagon 
come  up  the  road  and  through  the  yard  gates.  Miss  Stokes 
was  with  her  team  as  usual;  her  "Whoa I"  rang  out  like 
a  war-whoop. 

She  faced  up  at  the  truck  where  the  two  men  stood. 

"Joel"  she  called,  to  the  averted  figure  which  stood  up 
in  the  wind. 

"What?"  he  turned  unwillingly. 

She  made  a  queer  movement,  lifting  her  head  slightly 
in  a  sipping,  half -inviting,  half -commanding  gesture.  And 
Joe  was  crouching  already  to  jump  off  the  truck  to  obey 
her,  when  Albert  put  his  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

"Half  a  minute,  boy  I  Where  a.re  you  off?  Work's 
work,  and  nuts  is  nuts.    You  stop  here." 

Joe  slowly  straightened  himself. 

"Joe?"  came  the  woman's  clear  call  from  below. 

Again  Joe  looked  at  her.  But  Albert's  hand  was  on  his 
shoulder,  detaining  him.  He  stood  half  averted,  with  his 
tail  between  his  legs. 


MONKEY  NUTS  119 

"Take  your  hand  off  him,  you  I"  said  Miss  Stokes. 

"Yes,  Major,"  retorted  Albert  satirically. 

She  stood  and  watched. 

"Joel "    Her  voice  rang  for  the  third  time. 

Joe  turned  and  looked  at  her,  and  a  slow,  jeering  smile 
gathered  on  his  face. 

"Monkey-nuts!"  he  replied,  in  a  tone  mocking  her 
call. 

She  turned  white — dead  white.  The  men  thought  she 
would  fall.  Albert  began  yelling  to  the  porters  up  the  line 
to  come  and  help  with  the  load.  He  could  yell  like  any 
non-commissioned  officer  upon  occasion. 

Some  way  or  other  the  wagon  was  unloaded,  the  girl 
was  gone.  Joe  and  his  corporal  looked  at  one  aaother  and 
smiled  slowly.  But  they  had  a  weight  on  their  minds,  they 
were  afraid. 

They  were  reassured,  however,  when  they  found  that 
Miss  Stokes  came  no  more  with  the  hay.  As  far  as  they 
were  concerned,  she  had  vanished  into  oblivion.  And  Joe 
felt  more  relieved  even  than  he  had  felt  when  he  heard  the 
firing  cease,  after  the  news  had  come  that  the  armistice 
was  signed. 


WINTRY  PEACOCK 


WINTRY  PEACOCK 

There  was  thin,  crisp  snow  on  the  ground,  the  sky  was 
blue,  the  wind  very  cold,  the  air  clear.  Farmers  were 
just  turning  out  the  cows  for  an  hour  or  so  in  the  mid-day, 
and  the  smell  of  cow-sheds  was  unendurable  as  I  entered 
Tible.  I  noticed  the  ash-twigs  up  in  the  sky  were  pale  and 
luminous,  passing  into  the  blue.  And  then  I  saw  the  pea- 
cocks. There  they  were  in  the  road  before  me,  three  of 
them,  and  tailless,  brown,  speckled  birds,  with  dark-blue 
necks  and  ragged  crests.  They  stepped  archly  over  the  fili- 
gree snow,  and  their  bodies  moved  with  slow  motion,  like 
small,  light,  fiat-bottomed  boats.  I  admired  them,  they  were 
curious.  Then  a  gust  of  wind  caught  them,  heeled  them 
over  as  if  they  were  three  frail  boats,  opening  their  feath- 
ers like  ragged  sails.  They  hopped  and  skipped  with  dis- 
comfort, to  get  out  of  the  draught  of  the  wind.  And  then, 
in  the  lee  of  the  walls,  they  resumed  their  arch,  wintry 
motion,  light  and  unballasted  now  their  tails  were  gone, 
indifferent.  They  were  indifferent  to  my  presence.  I 
might  have  touched  them.  They  turned  off  to  the  shelter 
of  an  open  shed. 

As  I  passed  the  end  of  the  upper  house,  I  saw  a  young 
woman  just  coming  out  of  the  back  door.  I  had  spoken  to 
her  in  the  summer.  She  recognised  me  at  once,  and  waved 
to  me.  She  was  carrying  a  pail,  wearing  a  white  apron 
that  was  longer  than  her  preposterously  short  skirt,  and 
she  had  on  the  cotton  bonnet.    I  took  off  my  hat  to  her 

X23 


124  WINTRY  PEACOCK 

and  was  going  on.  But  she  put  down  her  pail  and  darted 
with  a  swift,  furtive  movement  after  me. 

"Do  you  mind  waiting  a  minute?"  she  said.  "I'll  be  out 
in  a  minute." 

She  gave  me  a  slight,  odd  smile,  and  ran  back.  Her 
face  was  long  and  sallow  and  her  nose  rather  red.  But 
her  gloomy  black  eyes  softened  caressively  to  me  for  a 
moment,  with  that  momentary  humility  which  makes  a 
man  lord  of  the  earth. 

I  stood  in  the  road,  looking  at  the  fluffy,  dark-red  young 
cattle  that  mooed  and  seemed  to  bark  at  me.  They  seemed 
happy,  frisky  cattle,  a  little  impudent,  and  either  deter- 
mined to  go  back  into  the  warm  shed,  or  determined  not  to 
go  back.    I  could  not  decide  which. 

Presently  the  woman  came  forward  again,  her  head 
rather  ducked.  But  she  looked  up  at  me  and  smiled,  with 
that  odd,  immediate  intimacy,  something  witch-like  and 
impossible. 

"Sorry  to  keep  you  waiting/'  she  said.  "Shall  we  stand 
in  this  cart-shed — it  will  be  more  out  of  the  wind." 

So  we  stood  among  the  shafts  of  the  open  cart-shed  that 
faced  the  road.  Then  she  looked  down  at  the  ground,  a 
little  sideways,  and  I  noticed  a  small  black  frown  on  her 
brows.  She  seemed  to  brood  for  a  moment.  Then  she 
looked  straight  into  my  eyes,  so  that  I  blinked  and  wanted 
to  turn  my  face  aside.  She  was  searching  me  for  some- 
thing and  her  look  was  too  near.  The  frown  was  still  on 
her  keen,  sallow  brow. 

"Can  you  speak  French?"  she  asked  me  abruptly. 

"More  or  less,"  I  replied. 

"I  was  supposed  to  learn  it  at  school,"  she  said.    "But 


WINTRY  PEACOCK  125 

I  don't  know  a  word."  She  ducked  her  head  and  laughed, 
with  a  slightly  ugly  grimace  and  a  rolling  of  her  black 
eyes. 

"No  good  keeping  your  mind  full  of  scraps,"  I  answered. 

But  she  had  turned  aside  her  sallow,  long  face,  and  did 
not  hear  what  I  said.  Suddenly  again  she  looked  at  me. 
She  was  searching.  And  at  the  same  time  she  smiled  at 
me,  and  her  eyes  looked  softly,  darkly,  with  infinite  trust- 
ful humility  into  mine.    I  was  being  cajoled. 

"Would  you  mind  reading  a  letter  for  me,  in  French," 
she  said,  her  face  immediately  black  and  bitter-looking. 
She  glanced  at  me,  frowning. 

"Not  at  all,"  I  said. 

"It's  a  letter  to  my  husband,"  she  said,  still  scrutinising. 

I  looked  at  her,  and  didn't  quite  realise.  She  looked  too 
far  into  me,  my  wits  were  gone.  She  glanced  round.  Then 
she  looked  at  me  shrewdly.  She  drew  a  letter  from  her 
pocket,  and  handed  it  to  me.  It  was  addressed  from  France 
to  Lance-Corporal  Goyte,  at  Tible.  I  took  out  the  letter 
and  began  to  read  it,  as  mere  words.  "Mon  cher  Alfred" 
— ^it  might  have  been  a  bit  of  a  torn  newspaper.  So  I  fol- 
lowed the  script:  the  trite  phrases  of  a  letter  from  a 
French-speaking  girl  to  an  English  soldier.  "I  think  of 
you  always,  always.  Do  you  think  sometimes  of  me?" 
And  then  I  vaguely  realised  that  I  was  reading  a  man's 
private  correspondence.  And  yet,  how  could  one  consider 
these  trivial,  facile  French  phrases  private  I  Nothing  more 
trite  and  vulgar  in  the  world,  than  such  a  love-letter — ^no 
newspaper  more  obvious. 

Therefore  I  read  with  a  callous  heart  the  effusions  of 
the  Belgian  damsel.    But  then  I  gathered  my  attention. 


126  WINTRY  PEACOCK 

For  the  letter  went  on,  "Notre  cher  petit  bebe — our  dear 
little  baby  was  born  a  week  ago.  Almost  I  died,  knowing 
you  were  far  away,  and  perhaps  forgetting  the  fruit  of  our 
perfect  love.  But  the  child  comforted  me.  He  has  the 
smiling  eyes  and  virile  air  of  his  English  father.  I  pray 
to  the  Mother  of  Jesus  to  send  me  the  dear  father  of  my 
child,  that  I  may  see  him  with  my  child  in  his  arms,  and 
that  we  may  be  united  in  holy  family  love.  Ah,  my  Alfred, 
can  I  tell  you  how  I  miss  you,  how  I  weep  for  you.  My 
thoughts  are  with  you  always,  I  think  of  nothing  but  you, 
I  live  for  nothing  but  you  and  our  dear  baby.  If  you  do 
not  come  back  to  me  soon,  I  shall  die,  and  our  child  will 
die.  But  no,  you  cannot  come  back  to  me.  But  I  can 
come  to  you,  come  to  England  with  our  child.  If  you  do 
not  wish  to  present  me  to  your  good  mother  and  father, 
you  can  meet  me  in  some  town,  some  city,  for  I  shall  be 
so  frightened  to  be  alone  in  England  with  my  child,  and  no 
one  to  take  care  of  us.  Yet  I  must  come  to  you,  I  must 
bring  my  child,  my  little  Alfred  to  his  father,  the  big, 
beautiful  Alfred  that  I  love  so  much.  Oh,  write  and  tell 
me  where  I  shall  come.  I  have  some  money,  I  am  not  a 
penniless  creature.  I  have  money  for  myself  and  my  dear 
baby " 

I  read  to  the  end.  It  was  signed:  "Your  very  happy 
and  still  more  unhappy  Elise."  I  suppose  I  must  have  been 
smiling. 

"I  can  see  it  makes  you  laugh,"  said  Mrs.  Goyte,  sar- 
donically.    I  looked  up  at  her. 

"It's  a  love-letter,  I  know  that,"  she  said.  "There's  too 
many  *  Alfreds'  in  it." 

"One  too  many,"  I  said. 


WINTRY  PEACOCK  127 

"Oh,  yes —  And  what  does  she  say — Eliza?  We  know 
her  name's  Eliza,  that's  another  thing."  She  grimaced  a 
little,  looking  up  at  me  with  a  mocking  laugh. 

"Where  did  you  get  this  letter?"  I  said. 

"Postman  gave  it  me  last  week." 

"And  is  your  husband  at  home?" 

"I  expect  him  home  to-night.  He's  been  wounded,  you 
know,  and  we've  been  applying  for  him  home.  He  was 
home  about  six  weeks  ago — he's  been  in  Scotland  since 
then.  Oh,  he  was  wounded  in  the  leg.  Yes,  he's  all  right, 
a  great  strapping  fellow.  But  he's  lame,  he  limps  a  bit. 
He  expects  he'll  get  his  discharge — but  I  don't  think  he 
will.  We  married?  We've  been  married  six  years — and 
he  joined  up  the  first  day  of  the  war.  Oh,  he  thought  he'd 
like  the  life.  He'd  been  through  the  South  African  War. 
No,  he  was  sick  of  it,  fed  up,  I'm  living  with  his  father 
and  mother — I've  no  home  of  my  own  now.  My  people 
had  a  big  farm — over  a  thousand  acres — in  Oxfordshire. 
Not  like  here — no.  Oh,  they're  very  good  to  me,  his 
father  and  mother.  Oh,  yes,  they  couldn't  be  better. 
They  think  more  of  me  than  of  their  own  daughters.  But 
it's  not  like  being  in  a  place  of  your  own,  is  it?  You  can't 
really  do  as  you  like.  No,  there's  only  me  and  his  father 
and  mother  at  home.  Before  the  war?  Oh,  he  was  any- 
thing. He's  had  a  good  education — but  he  liked  the  farm- 
ing better.  Then  he  was  a  chauffeur.  That's  how  he  knew 
French.  He  was  driving  a  gentleman  in  France  for  a  long 
time " 

At  this  point  the  peacocks  came  round  the  comer  onsa 
puff  of  wind. 

"Hello,  Joey!"  she  called,  and  one  of  the  birds  came 


128  WINTRY  PEACOCK 

forward,  on  delicate  legs.  Its  grey  speckled  back  was  very 
elegant,  it  rolled  its  full,  dark-blue  neck  as  it  moved  to  her. 
She  crouched  down.  "Joey,  dear,''  she  said,  in  an  odd, 
saturnine  caressive  voice,  "you're  bound  to  find  me,  aren't 
you?"  She  put  her  face  forward,  and  the  bird  rolled  his 
neck,  almost  touching  her  face  with  his  beak,  as  if  kissing 
her. 

"He  loves  you,"  I  said. 

She  twisted  her  face  up  at  me  with  a  laugh. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "he  loves  me,  Joey  does," — then,  to  the 
bird — "and  I  love  Joey,  don't  I.  I  do  love  Joey."  And 
she  smoothed  his  feathers  for  a  moment.  Then  she  rose, 
saying:  "He's  an  affectionate  bird." 

I  smiled  at  the  roll  of  her  "bir-rrd." 

"Oh  yes,  he  is,"  she  protested.  "He  came  with  me  from 
my  home  seven  years  ago.  Those  others  are  his  descend- 
ants— but  they're  not  like  Joey — are  they,  dee-urr?''  Her 
voice  rose  at  the  end  with  a  witch-like  cry. 

Then  she  forgot  the  birds  in  the  cart-shed,  and  turned 
to  business  again. 

"Won't  you  read  that  letter?"  she  said.  "Read  it,  so 
that  I  know  what  it  says." 

"It's  rather  behind  his  back,"  I  said. 

"Oh,  never  mind  him,"  she  cried.  "He's  been  behind 
my  back  long  enough — all  these  four  years.  If  he  never 
did  no  worse  things  behind  my  back  than  I  do  behind  his, 
he  wouldn't  have  cause  to  grumble.  You  read  me  what  it 
says." 

Now  I  felt  a  distinct  reluctance  to  do  as  she  bid,  and 
yet  I  began — "My  dear  Alfred." 

"I  guessed  that  much,"  she  said.    "Eliza's  dear  Alfred." 


WINTRY  PEACOCK  129 

She  laughed.    *'How  do  you  say  it  in  French?    Eliza?" 

I  told  her,  and  she  repeated  the  name  with  great  con- 
tempt— Elise, 

"Go  on,"  she  said.    "You're  not  reading." 

So  I  began — ^^*I  have  been  thinking  of  you  sometimes — 
have  you  been  thinking  of  me?" 

"Of  several  others  as  well,  beside  her,  I'll  wager,"  said 
Mrs.  Goyte. 

"Probably  not,"  said  I,  and  continued.  "A  dear  little 
baby  was  born  here  a  week  ago.  Ah,  can  I  tell  you  my 
feelings  when  I  take  my  darling  little  brother  into  my 
arms " 

"I'll  bet  it's  his/'  cried  Mrs.  Goyte. 

"No,"  I  said.    "It's  her  mother's." 

"Don't  you  believe  it,"  she  cried.  "It's  a  blind.  You 
mark,  it's  her  own  right  enough — ^and  his." 

"No,"  I  said,  "it's  her  mother's."  "He  has  sweet  smil- 
ing eyes,  but  not  like  your  beautiful  English  eyes " 

She  suddenly  struck  her  hand  on  her  skirt  with  a  wild 
motion,  and  bent  down,  doubled  with  laughter.  Then  she 
rose  and  covered  her  face  with  her  hand. 

"I'm  forced  to  laugh  at  the  beautiful  English  eyes,"  she 
said. 

"Aren't  his  eyes  beautiful?"  I  asked. 

"Oh,  yes — very!  Go  on! — Joey,  dear,  dee-urr  Joey/" 
— this  to  the  peacock. 

— "Er — We  miss  you  very  much.  We  all  miss  you.  We 
wish  you  were  here  to  see  the  darling  baby.  Ah,  Alfred, 
how  happy  we  were  when  you  stayed  with  us.  We  all  loved 
you  so  much.  My  mother  will  call  the  baby  Alfred  so  that 
we  shall  never  forget  you " 


I30  WINTRY  PEACOCK 

"Of  course  it's  his  right  enough,"  cried  Mrs.  Go5^e. 

"No,"  I  said.  "It's  the  mother's."  Er— "My  mother  is 
very  well.  My  father  came  home  yesterday — on  leave. 
He  is  delighted  with  his  son,  my  little  brother,  and  wishes 
to  have  him  named  after  you,  because  you  were  so  good  lo 
us  all  in  that  terrible  time,  which  I  shall  never  forget.  I 
must  weep  now  when  I  think  of  it.  Well,  you  are  far  away 
in  England,  and  perhaps  I  shall  never  see  you  again.  How 
did  you  find  your  dear  mother  and  father?  I  am  so  happy 
that  your  wound  is  better,  and  that  you  can  nearly 
walk " 

"How  did  he  find  his  dear  wife!''  cried  Mrs.  Goyte. 
"He  never  told  her  he  had  one.  Think  of  taking  the  poor 
girl  in  like  that!" 

"We  are  so  pleased  when  you  write  to  us.  Yet  now  you 
are  in  England  you  will  forget  the  family  you  served  so 
well " 

"A  bit  too  well — eh,  JoeyT  cried  the  wife. 

"If  it  had  not  been  for  you  we  should  not  be  alive  now, 
to  grieve  and  to  rejoice  in  this  life,  that  is  so  hard  for  us. 
But  we  have  recovered  some  of  our  losses,  and  no  longer 
feel  the  burden  of  poverty.  The  little  Alfred  is  a  great 
comfort  to  me.  I  hold  him  to  my  breast  and  think  of  the 
big,  good  Alfred,  and  I  weep  to  think  that  those  times  of 
suffering  were  perhaps  the  times  of  a  great  happiness  that 
is  gone  for  ever." 

"Oh,  but  isn't  it  a  shame,  to  take  a  poor  girl  in  like 
that!"  cried  Mrs.  Goyte.  "Never  to  let  on  that  he  was 
married,  and  raise  her  hopes — I  call  it  beastly,  I  do." 

"You  don't  know,"  I  said.  "You  know  how  anxious 
women  are  to  fall  in  love,  wife  or  no  wife.    How  could  he 


WINTRY  PEACOCK  131 

help  it,  if  she  was  determined  to  fall  in  love  with  him?*' 

"He  could  have  helped  it  if  he'd  wanted." 

"Well,"  I  said,  "we  aren't  all  heroes." 

"Oh,  but  that's  different!  The  big,  good  Alfred  I— did 
ever  you  hear  such  tommy-rot  in  your  lifel  Go  on — ^what 
does  she  say  at  the  end?" 

"Er — We  shall  be  pleased  to  hear  of  your  life  in  Eng- 
land. We  all  send  many  kind  regards  to  your  good  parents. 
I  wish  you  all  happiness  for  your  future  days.  Your  very 
affectionate  and  ever-grateful  Elise." 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment,  during  which  Mrs. 
Goyte  remained  with  her  head  dropped,  sinister  and  ab- 
stracted. Suddenly  she  lifted  her  face,  and  her  eyes 
flashed. 

"Oh,  but  I  call  it  beastly,  I  call  it  mean,  to  take  a  girl  in 
like  that!" 

"Nay,"  I  said.  "Probably  he  hasn't  taken  her  in  at  all. 
Do  you  think  those  French  girls  are  such  poor  innocent 
things?    I  guess  she's  a  great  deal  more  downy  than  he." 

"Oh,  he's  one  of  the  biggest  fools  that  ever  walked,"  she 
cried. 

"There  you  are!"  said  I. 

"But  it's  his  child  right  enough,"  she  said. 

"I  don't  think  so,"  said  I. 

"I'm  sure  of  it." 

"Oh,  well,"  I  said — "if  you  prefer  to  think  that  way." 

"What  other  reason  has  she  for  writing  like  that ^" 

I  went  out  into  the  road  and  looked  at  the  cattle. 

"Who  is  this  driving  the  cows?"  I  said.  She  too  came 
out. 

"It's  the  boy  from  the  next  farm,"  she  said. 


132  WINTRY  PEACOCK 

"Oh,  well,"  said  I,  "those  Belgian  girls!  You  never 
know  where  their  letters  will  end.  And,  after  all,  it's  his 
affair — ^you  needn't  bother." 

"Oh — !"  she  cried,  with  rough  scorn — "it's  not  me  that 
bothers.  But  it's  the  nasty  meanness  of  it — me  writing 
him  such  loving  letters" — she  put  her  hand  before  her  face 
and  laughed  malevolently — "and  sending  him  parcels  all 
the  time.  You  bet  he  fed  that  gurrl  on  my  parcels — I 
know  he  did.  It's  just  like  him.  I'll  bet  they  laughed 
together  over  my  letters.    I'll  bet  anything  they  did " 

"Nay,"  said  I. 

"He'd  burn  your  letters  for  fear  they'd  give  him  away." 

There  was  a  black  look  on  her  yellow  face.  Suddenly 
a  voice  was  heard  calling.  She  poked  her  head  out  of 
the  shed,  and  answered  coolly: 

"All  right! "  Then  turning  to  me:  "That's  his  mother 
looking  after  me." 

She  laughed  into  my  face,  witch-like,  and  we  turned 
down  the  road. 

When  I  awoke,  the  morning  after  this  episode,  I  found 
the  house  darkened  with  deep,  soft  snow,  which  had  blown 
against  the  large  west  windows,  covering  them  with  a 
screen.  I  went  outside,  and  saw  the  valley  all  white  and 
ghastly  below  me,  the  trees  beneath  black  and  thin  look- 
ing like  wire,  the  rock-faces  dark  between  the  glistening 
shroud,  and  the  sky  above  sombre,  heavy,  yellowish-dark, 
much  too  heavy  for  this  world  below  of  hollow  bluey 
whiteness  figured  with  black.  I  felt  I  was  in  a  valley 
of  the  dead.  And  I  sensed  I  was  a  prisoner,  for  the  snow 
was  everywhere  deep,  and  drifted  in  places.  So  all  the 
morning  I  remained  indoors,  looking  up  the  drive  at  the 


WINTRY  PEACOCK  133 

shrubs  so  heavily  plumed  with  snow,  at  the  gateposts 
raised  high  with  a  foot  or  more  of  extra  whiteness.  Or 
I  looked  down  into  the  white-and-black  valley,  that  was 
utterly  motionless  and  beyond  life,  a  hollow  sarcophagus. 

Nothing  stirred  the  whole  day — no  plume  fell  off  the 
shrubs,  the  valley  was  as  abstracted  as  a  grove  of  death. 
I  looked  over  at  the  tiny,  half-buried  farms  away  on  the 
bare  uplands  beyond  the  valley  hollow,  and  I  thought  of 
Tible  in  the  snow,  of  the  black  witch-like  little  Mrs.  Goyte. 
And  the  snow  seemed  to  lay  me  bare  to  influences  I  wanted 
to  escape. 

In  the  faint  glow  of  the  half -clear  light  that  came  about 
four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  I  was  roused  to  see  a  motion 
in  the  snow  away  below,  near  where  the  thorn-trees  stood 
very  black  and  dwarfed,  like  a  little  savage  group,  in  the 
dismal  white.  I  watched  closely.  Yes,  there  was  a  flap- 
ping and  a  struggle — a  big  bird,  it  must  be,  labouring  in 
the  snow.  I  wondered.  Our  biggest  birds,  in  the  valley, 
were  the  large  hawks  that  often  hung  flickering  opposite 
my  windows,  level  with  me,  but  high  above  some  prey 
on  the  steep  valleyside.  This  was  much  too  big  for  a 
hawk — too  big  for  any  known  bird.  I  searched  in  my 
mind  for  the  largest  English  wild  birds,  geese,  buzzards. 

Still  it  laboured  and  strove,  then  was  still,  a  dark  spot, 
then  struggled  again.  I  went  out  of  the  house  and  down 
the  steep  slope,  at  risk  of  breaking  my  leg  between  the 
rocks.  I  knew  the  ground  so  well — and  yet  I  got  well 
shaken  before  I  drew  near  the  thorn-trees. 

Yes,  it  was  a  bird.  It  was  Joey.  It  was  the  grey-brown 
peacock  with  a  blue  neck.    He  was  snow-wet  and  spent. 

**Joey — Joey    de-urri"    I    said,    staggering   unevenly 


134  WINTRY  PEACOCK 

towards  him.  He  looked  so  pathetic,  rowing  and  strug- 
gling in  the  snow,  too  spent  to  rise,  his  blue  neck  stretch- 
ing out  and  lying  sometimes  on  the  snow,  his  eye  closing 
and  opening  quickly,  his  crest  all  battered. 

"Joey  dee-urr!  Dee-urr!"  I  said  caressingly  to  him. 
And  at  last  he  lay  still,  blinking,  in  the  surged  and  fur- 
rowed snow,  whilst  I  came  near  and  touched  him,  stroked 
him,  gathered  him  under  my  arm.  He  stretched  his  long, 
wetted  neck  away  from  me  as  I  held  him,  none  the  less 
he  was  quiet  in  my  arm,  too  tired  perhaps,  to  struggle. 
Still  he  held  his  poor,  crested  head  away  from  me, 
and  seemed  sometimes  to  droop,  to  wilt,  as  if  he  might 
suddenly  die. 

He  was  not  so  heavy  as  I  expected,  yet  it  was  a  struggle 
to  get  up  to  the  house  with  him  again.  We  set  him  down, 
not  too  near  the  fire,  and  gently  wiped  him  with  cloths. 
He  submitted,  only  now  and  then  stretched  his  soft  neck 
away  from  us,  avoiding  us  helplessly.  Then  we  set  warm 
food  by  him.  I  put  it  to  his  beak,  tried  to  make  him  eat. 
But  he  ignored  it.  He  seemed  to  be  ignorant  of  what  we 
were  doing,  recoiled  inside  himself  inexplicably.  So  we 
put  him  in  a  basket  with  cloths,  and  left  him  crouching 
oblivious.  His  food  we  put  near  him.  The  blinds  were 
drawn,  the  house  was  warm,  it  was  night.  Sometimes 
he  stirred,  but  mostly  he  huddled  still,  leaning  his  queer 
crested  head  on  one  side.  He  touched  no  food,  and  took 
no  heed  of  sounds  or  movements.  We  talked  of  brandy 
or  stimulants.  But  I  realised  we  had  best  leave  him 
alone. 

In  the  night,  however,  we  heard  him  thumping  about. 
I  got  up  anxiously  with  a  candle.    He  had  eaten  some 


WINTRY  PEACOCK  135 

food,  and  scattered  more,  making  a  mess.  And  he  was 
perched  on  the  back  of  a  heavy  arm-chair.  So  I  concluded 
he  was  recovered,  or  recovering. 

The  next  day  was  clear,  and  the  snow  had  frozen,  so 
I  decided  to  carry  him  back  to  Tible.  He  consented, 
after  various  flappings,  to  sit  in  a  big  fish-bag  with  his 
battered  head  peeping  out  with  wild  uneasiness.  And  so 
I  set  off  with  him,  slithering  down  into  the  valley,  making 
good  progress  down  in  the  pale  shadow  beside  the  rushing 
waters,  then  climbing  painfully  up  the  arrested  white 
valleyside,  plumed  with  clusters  of  young  pine  trees, 
into  the  paler  white  radiance  of  the  snowy,  upper  regions, 
where  the  wind  cut  fine.  Joey  seemed  to  watch  all  the 
time  with  wide  anxious,  unseeing  eye,  brilliant  and  inscru- 
table. As  I  drew  near  to  Tible  township,  he  stirred  vio- 
lently in  the  bag,  though  I  do  not  know  if  he  had 
recognised  the  place.  Then,  as  I  came  to  the  sheds,  he 
looked  sharply  from  side  to  side,  and  stretched  his  neck 
out  long.  I  was  a  little  afraid  of  him.  He  gave  a  loud, 
vehement  yell,  opening  his  sinister  beak,  and  I  stood 
still,  looking  at  him  as  he  struggled  in  the  bag,  shaken 
myself  by  his  struggles,  yet  not  thinking  to  release  him. 

Mrs.  Goyte  came  darting  past  the  end  of  the  house, 
her  head  sticking  forward  in  sharp  scrutiny.  She  saw  me, 
and  came  forward. 

"Have  you  got  Joey  I"  she  cried  sharply,  as  if  I  were 
a  thief. 

I  opened  the  bag,  and  he  flopped  out,  flapping  as  if  he 
hated  the  touch  of  the  snow,  now.  She  gathered  him 
up,  and  put  her  lips  to  his  beak.    She  was  flushed  and 


136  WINTRY  PEACOCK 

handsome,  her  eyes  bright,  her  hair  slack,  thick,  but  more 
witch-like  than  ever.     She  did  not  speak. 

She  had  been  followed  by  a  grey-haired  woman  with 
a  round,  rather  sallow  face  and  a  slightly  hostile  bearing. 

"Did  you  bring  him  with  you,  then?"  she  asked  sharply. 
I  answered  that  I  had  rescued  him  the  previous  evening. 

From  the  background  slowly  approached  a  slender  man 
with  a  grey  moustache  and  large  patches  on  his  trousers. 

"YouVe  got  'im  back  'gain,  ah  see,"  he  said  to  his 
daughter-in-law.  His  wife  explained  how  I  had  found 
Joey. 

"Ah,"  went  on  the  grey  man.  "It  wor  our  Alfred 
scarred  him  off,  back  your  life.  He  must'a  flyed  ower 
tValley.  Tha  ma'  thank  thy  stars  as  'e  wor  fun,  Maggie. 
'E'd  a  bin  froze.  They  a  bit  nesh,  you  know,"  he  con- 
cluded to  me. 

"They  are,"  I  answered.    "This  isn't  their  country." 

"No,  it  isna,"  replied  Mr.  Goyte.  He  spoke  very  slowly 
and  deliberately,  quietly,  as  if  the  soft  pedal  were  always 
down  in  his  voice.  He  looked  at  his  daughter-in-law  as 
she  crouched,  flushed  and  dark,  before  the  peacock,  which 
would  lay  its  long  blue  neck  for  a  moment  along  her  lap. 
In  spite  of  his  grey  moustache  and  thin  grey  hair,  the 
elderly  man  had  a  face  young  and  almost  delicate,  like  a 
young  man's.  His  blue  eyes  twinkled  with  some  inscru- 
table source  of  pleasure,  his  skin  was  fine  and  tender,  his 
nose  delicately  arched.  His  grey  hair  being  slightly 
ruffled,  he  had  a  debonair  look,  as  of  a  youth  who  is  in 
love. 

"We  mun  tell  'im  it's  come,"  he  said  slowly,  and  turn- 
ing he  called:  "Alfred — ^Alfred!    Wheer's  ter  gotten  to?" 


WINTRY  PEACOCK  137 

Then  he  turned  again  to  the  group. 

"Get  up  then,  Maggie,  lass,  get  up  wi'  thee.  Tha  ma^es 
too  much  o*  th'  bod." 

A  young  man  approached,  wearing  rough  khaki  and 
knee-breeches.  He  was  Danish  looking,  broad  at  the 
loins. 

"I's  come  back  then,"  said  the  father  to  the  son — ^^'least- 
wise,  he's  bin  browt  back,  flyed  ower  the  Griff  Low." 

The  son  looked  at  me.  He  had  a  devil-may-care  bear- 
ing, his  cap  on  one  side,  his  hands  stuck  in  the  front 
pockets  of  his  breeches.    But  he  said  nothing. 

"Shall  you  come  in  a  minute,  Master,"  said  the  elderly 
woman,  to  me. 

"Ay,  come  in  an'  ha'e  a  cup  o'  tea  or  summat.  You'll 
do  wi'  summat,  carrin'  that  bod.  Come  on,  Maggie  wench, 
let's  go  in." 

So  we  went  indoors,  into  the  rather  stuffy,  overcrowded 
living  room,  that  was  too  cosy,  and  too  warm.  The  son 
followed  last,  standing  in  the  doorway.  The  father  talked 
to  me.  Maggie  put  out  the  tea-cups.  The  mother  went 
into  the  dairy  again. 

"Tha'lt  rouse  thysen  up  a  bit  again,  now,  Maggie,"  the 
father-in-law  said — ^and  then  to  me:  "  'er's  not  bin  very 
bright  sin'  Alfred  come  whoam,  an'  the  bod  flyed  awee. 
'E  come  whoam  a  Wednesday  night,  Alfred  did.  But  ay, 
you  knowed,  didna  yer.  Ay,  'e  comed  'a  Wednesday — an' 
I  reckon  there  wor  a  bit  of  a  to-do  between  'em,  wom't 
there,  Maggie?" 

He  twinkled  maliciously  to  his  daughter-in-law,  who 
was  flushed,  brilliant  and  handsome. 

"Oh,  be  quiet,  father.    You're  wound  up,  by  the  sound 


138  WINTRY  PEACOCK 

of  you,"  she  said  to  him,  as  if  crossly.  But  she  could 
never  be  cross  with  him. 

"  'Er^s  got  ^er  colour  back  this  morninV'  continued  the 
father-in-law  slowly.  "It's  bin  heavy  weather  wi'  'er  this 
last  two  days.  Ay — 'er's  bin  northeast  sin  'er  seed  you 
a  Wednesday.'* 

"Father,  do  stop  talking.  You'd  wear  the  leg  off  an 
iron  pot.  I  can't  think  where  you've  found  your  tongue, 
all  of  a  sudden,"  said  Maggie,  with  caressive  sharpness. 

"Ah've  found  it  wheer  I  lost  it.  Aren't  goin'  ter  come 
in  an'  sit  thee  down,  Alfred?" 

But  Alfred  turned  and  disappeared. 

"  'E's  got  th'  monkey  on  'is  back,  ower  this  letter  job," 
said  the  father  secretly  to  me.  "Mother,  'er  knows  nowt 
about  it.  Lot  o'  tom-foolery,  isn't  it?  Ay  I  What's 
good  o'  makkin'  a  peck  o'  trouble  over  what's  far  enough 
off,  an'  ned  niver  come  no  nigher.  No — ^not  a  smite  o'  use. 
That's  what  I  tell  'er.  'Er  should  ta'e  no  notice  on't.  Ty, 
what  can  y'  expect." 

The  mother  came  in  again,  and  the  talk  became  general. 
Maggie  flashed  her  eyes  at  me  from  time  to  time,  com- 
placent and  satisfied,  moving  among  the  men.  I  paid  her 
little  compliments,  which  she  did  not  seem  to  hear.  She 
attended  to  me  with  a  kind  of  sinister,  witch-like  gracious- 
ness,  her  dark  head  ducked  between  her  shoulders,  at  once 
humble  and  powerful.  She  was  happy  as  a  child  attending 
to  her  father-in-law  and  to  me.  But  there  was  something 
ominous  between  her  eyebrows,  as  if  a  dark  moth  were 
settled  there — ^and  something  ominous  in  her  bent,  hulking 
bearing. 

She  sat  on  a  low  stool  by  the  fire,  near  her  father-in-law. 


WINTRY  PEACOCK  139 

Her  head  was  dropped,  she  seemed  in  a  state  of  abstrac- 
tion. From  time  to  time  she  would  suddenly  recover,  and 
look  up  at  us,  laughing  and  chatting.  Then  she  would 
forget  again.  Yet  in  her  hulked  black  forgetting  she 
seemed  very  near  to  us. 

The  door  having  been  opened,  the  peacock  came  slowly 
in,  prancing  calmly.  He  went  near  to  her,  and  crouched 
down,  coiling  his  blue  neck.  She  glanced  at  him,  but 
almost  as  if  she  did  not  observe  him.  The  bird  sat 
silent,  seeming  to  sleep,  and  the  woman  also  sat  hulked 
and  silent,  seemingly  oblivious.  Then  once  more  there 
was  a  heavy  step,  and  Alfred  entered.  He  looked  at  his 
wife,  and  he  looked  at  the  peacock  crouching  by  her. 
He  stood  large  in  the  doorway,  his  hands  stuck  in  front 
of  him,  in  his  breeches  pockets.  Nobody  spoke.  He 
turned  on  his  heel  and  went  out  again. 

I  rose  also  to  go.  Maggie  started  as  if  coming  to 
herself. 

"Must  you  go?"  she  asked,  rising  and  coming  near  to 
me,  standing  in  front  of  me,  twisting  her  head  sideways 
and  looking  up  at  me.  "Can't  you  stop  a  bit  longer? 
We  can  all  be  cosy  to-day,  there's  nothing  to  dc  outdoors." 
And  she  laughed,  showing  her  teeth  oddly.  She  had  a  long 
chin. 

I  said  I  must  go.  The  peacock  imcoiled  and  coiled  again 
his  long  blue  neck,  as  he  lay  on  the  hearth.  Maggie 
still  stood  close  in  front  of  me,  so  that  I  was  acutely  aware 
of  my  waistcoat  buttons. 

"Oh  well,"  she  said,  "you'll  come  again,  won't  you? 
Do  come  again." 


I40  WINTRY  PEACOCK 

I  promised. 

"Come  to  tea  one  day — ^yes,  dol" 

I  promised — one  day. 

The  moment  I  went  out  of  her  presence  I  ceased  utterly 
to  exist  for  her — as  utterly  as  I  ceased  to  exist  for  Joey. 
With  her  curious  abstractedness  she  forgot  me  again 
immediately.  I  knew  it  as  I  left  her.  Yet  she  seemed 
almost  in  physical  contact  with  me  while  I  was  with  her. 

The  sky  was  all  pallid  again,  yellowish.  When  I  went 
out  there  was  no  sun;  the  snow  was  blue  and  cold.  I 
hurried  away  down  the  hill,  musing  on  Maggie.  The  road 
made  a  loop  down  the  sharp  face  of  the  slope.  As  I  went 
crunching  over  the  laborious  snow  I  became  aware  of 
a  figure  striding  down  the  steep  scarp  to  intercept  me.  It 
was  a  man  with  his  hands  in  front  of  him,  half  stuck  in 
his  breeches  pockets,  and  his  shoulders  square — a  real 
farmer  of  the  hills;  Alfred,  of  course.  He  waited  for 
me  by  the  stone  fence. 

"Excuse  me,"  he  said  as  I  came  up. 

I  came  to  a  halt  in  front  of  him  and  looked  into  his 
sullen  blue  eyes.  He  had  a  certain  odd  haughtiness  on  his 
brows.    But  his  blue  eyes  stared  insolently  at  me. 

"Do  you  know  anything  about  a  letter — ^in  French — 
that  my  wife  opened — a.  letter  of  mine ?" 

"Yes,"  said  I.     "She  asked  me  to  read  it  to  her." 

He  looked  square  at  me.  He  did  not  know  exactly  how 
to  feel. 

"What  was  there  in  it?"  he  asked. 

"Why?"  I  said.    "Don't  you  know?" 

"She  makes  out  she's  burnt  it,"  he  said. 


WINTRY  PEACOCK  141 

"Without  showing  it  you?"  I  asked. 

He  nodded  slightly.  He  seemed  to  be  meditating  as 
to  what  line  of  action  he  should  take.  He  wanted  to 
know  the  contents  of  the  letter:  he  must  know:  and 
therefore  he  must  ask  me,  for  evidently  his  wife  had 
taunted  him.  At  the  same  time,  no  doubt,  he  would 
like  to  wreak  untold  vengeance  on  my  unfortunate  person. 
So  he  eyed  me,  and  I  eyed  him,  and  neither  of  us  spoke. 
He  did  not  want  to  repeat  his  request  to  me.  And  yet  I 
only  looked  at  him,  and  considered. 

Suddenly  he  threw  back  his  head  and  glanced  down  the 
valley.  Then  he  changed  his  position — ^he  was  a  horse- 
soldier.    Then  he  looked  at  me  more  confidentially. 

"She  burnt  the  blasted  thing  before  I  saw  it,"  he  said. 

"Well,"  I  answered  slowly,  "she  doesn't  know  herself 
what  was  in  it." 

He  continued  to  watch  me  narrowly.  I  grinned  to 
myself. 

"I  didn't  like  to  read  her  out  what  there  was  in  it," 
I  continued. 

He  suddenly  flushed  so  that  the  veins  in  his  neck  stood 
out,  and  he  stirred  again  uncomfortably. 

"The  Belgian  girl  said  her  baby  had  been  born  a  week 
ago,  and  that  they  were  going  to  call  it  Alfred,"  I  told 
him. 

He  met  my  eyes.  I  was  grinning.  He  began  to  grin, 
too. 

"Good  luck  to  her,"  he  said. 

"Best  of  luck,"  said  I. 

"And  what  did  you  tell  her?"  he  asked. 

"That  the  baby  belonged  to  the  old  mother — that  it  was 


142  WINTRY  PEACOCK 

brother  to  your  girl,  who  was  writing  to  you  as  a  friend 
of  the  family." 

He  stood  smiling,  with  the  long,  subtle  malice  of  a 
farmer. 

"And  did  she  take  it  in?"  he  asked. 

"As  much  as  she  took  anything  else." 

He  stood  grinning  fixedly.  Then  he  broke  into  a  short 
laugh. 

"Good  for  her!"  he  exclaimed  cryptically. 

And  then  he  laughed  aloud  once  more,  evidently  feel- 
ing he  had  won  a  big  move  in  his  contest  with  his  wife. 

"What  about  the  other  woman?"  I  asked. 

"Who?" 

"Elise." 

"Oh" — ^he  shifted  uneasily — "she  was  all  right " 

"You'll  be  getting  back  to  her,"  I  said. 

He  looked  at  me.  Then  he  made  a  grimace  with  his 
mouth. 

"Not  me,"  he  said.    "Back  your  life  it's  a  plant." 

"You  don't  think  the  cher  petit  bebe  is  a  little  Alfred?" 

"It  might  be,"  he  said. 

"Only  might?" 

"Yes —  an'  there's  lots  of  mites  in  a  pound  of  cheese." 
He  laughed  boisterously  but  uneasily. 

"What  did  she  say,  exactly?"  he  asked. 

I  began  to  repeat,  as  well  as  I  could,  the  phrases  of 
the  letter: 

**Mon  cher  Alfred —  Figure-tot  comme  je  suis 
desolie " 

He  listened  with  some  confusion.  When  I  had  finished 
all  I  could  remember,  he  said: 


WINTRY  PEACOCK  143 

"They  know  how  to  pitch  you  out  a  letter,  those  Bel- 
gian lasses." 

"Practice,"  said  I. 

"They  get  plenty,"  he  said. 

There  was  a  pause. 

"Oh.  well,"  he  said.  "IVe  never  got  that  letter,  any- 
how." 

The  wind  blew  fine  and  keen,  in  the  sunshine,  across 
the  snow.    I  blew  my  nose  and  prepared  to  depart. 

"And  she  doesn't  know  anything?"  he  continued,  jerk- 
ing his  head  up  the  hill  in  the  direction  of  Tible. 

"She  knows  nothing  but  what  I've  said — that  is,  if  she 
really  burnt  the  letter." 

"I  believe  she  burnt  it,"  he  said,  "for  spite.  She's  a 
little  devil,  she  is.  But  I  shall  have  it  out  with  her."  His 
jaw  was  stubborn  and  sullen.  Then  suddenly  he  turned 
to  me  with  a  new  note. 

"Why?"  he  said.  "Why  didn't  you  wring  that  b— 
peacock's  neck — that  b — ^Joey?" 

"Why?"  I  said.    "What  for?" 

"I  hate  the  brute,"  he  said.    "I  had  a  shot  at  him " 

I  laughed.    He  stood  and  mused. 

"Poor  little  Elise,"  he  murmured. 

"Was  she  small — ^petite?"  I  asked.  He  jerked  up  his 
head. 

"No,"  he  said.    "Rather  tall." 

"Taller  than  your  wife,  I  suppose." 

Again  he  looked  into  my  eyes.  And  then  once  more 
he  went  into  a  loud  burst  of  laughter  that  made  the  still, 
snow-deserted  valley  clap  again. 

"God,  it's  a  knockout!"  he  said,  thoroughly  amused. 


144  WINTRY  PEACOCK 

Then  he  stood  at  ease,  one  foot  out,  his  hands  in  his 
breeches  pocket,  in  front  of  him,  his  head  thrown  back, 
a  handsome  figure  of  a  man. 

"But  I'll  do  that  blasted  Joey  in—"  he  mused. 

I  ran  down  the  hill,  shouting  with  laughter. 


YOU  TOUCHED  ME 


YOU  TOUCHED  ME 

The  Pottery  House  was  a  square,  ugly,  brick  house 
girt  in  by  the  wall  that  enclosed  the  whole  grounds  of  the 
pottery  itself.  To  be  sure,  a  privet  hedge  partly  masked 
the  house  and  its  grounds  from  the  pottery-yard  and 
works:  but  only  partly.  Through  the  hedge  could  be 
seen  the  desolate  yard,  and  the  many-windowed,  factory- 
like pottery,  over  the  hedge  could  be  seen  the  chimneys 
and  the  out-houses.  But  inside  the  hedge,  a  pleasant 
garden  and  lawn  sloped  down  to  a  willow  pool,  which  had 
once  supplied  the  works. 

The  pottery  itself  was  now  closed,  the  great  doors 
of  the  yard  permanently  shut.  No  more  the  great  crates, 
with  yellow  straw  showing  through,  stood  in  stacks  by 
the  packing  shed.  No  more  the  drays  drawn  by  great 
horses  rolled  down  the  hill  with  a  high  load.  No  more 
the  pottery-lasses  in  their  clay-coloured  overalls,  their 
faces  and  hair  splashed  with  grey  fine  mud,  shrieked  and 
larked  with  the  men.    All  that  was  over. 

"We  like  it  much  better — oh,  much  better — quieter," 
said  Matilda  Rockley. 

"Oh,  yes,"  assented  Emmie  Rockley,  her  sister. 

"I'm  sure  you  do,"  agreed  the  visitor. 

But  whether  the  two  Rockley  girls  really  liked  it  better, 
or  whether  they  only  imagined  they  did,  is  a  question. 
Certainly  their  lives  were  much  more  grey  and  dreary 
now  that  the  grey  clay  had  ceased  to  spatter  its  mud  and 

147 


148  YOU  TOUCHED  ME 

silt  its  dust  over  the  premises.  They  did  not  quite  realise 
how  they  missed  the  shrieking,  shouting  lasses,  whom  they 
had  known  all  their  lives  and  disliked  so  much. 

Matilda  and  Emmie  were  already  old  maids.  In  a 
thorough  industrial  district,  it  is  not  easy  for  the  girls  who 
have  expectations  above  the  common  to  find  husbands. 
The  ugly  industrial  town  was  full  of  men,  young  men 
who  were  ready  to  marry.  But  they  were  all  colliers  or 
pottery-hands,  mere  workmen.  The  Rockley  girls  would 
have  about  ten  thousand  pounds  each  when  their  father 
died:  ten  thousand  pounds'  worth  of  profitable  house- 
property.  It  was  not  to  be  sneezed  at:  they  felt  so  them- 
selves, and  refrained  from  sneezing  away  such  a  fortune 
on  any  mere  member  of  the  proletariat.  Consequently, 
bank-clerks  or  nonconformist  clergymen  or  even  school- 
teachers having  failed  to  come  forward,  Matilda  had 
begun  to  give  up  all  idea  of  ever  leaving  the  Pottery 
House. 

Matilda  was  a  tall,  thin,  graceful  fair  girl,  with  a 
rather  large  nose.  She  was  the  Mary  to  Emmie's  Martha: 
that  is,  Matilda  loved  painting  and  music,  and  read  a 
good  many  novels,  whilst  Emmie  looked  after  the  house- 
keeping. Emmie  was  shorter,  plumper  than  her  sister, 
and  she  had  no  accomplishments.  She  looked  up  to 
Matilda,  whose  mind  was  naturally  refined  and  sensible. 

In  their  quiet,  melancholy  way,  the  two  girls  were 
happy.  Their  mother  was  dead.  Their  father  was  ill 
also.  He  was  an  intelligent  man  who  had  had  some 
education,  but  preferred  to  remain  as  if  he  were  one  with 
the  rest  of  the  working  people.  He  had  a  passion  for 
music  and  played  the  violin  pretty  well.    But  now  he  was 


YOU  TOUCHED  ME  149 

getting  old,  he  was  very  ill,  dying  of  a  kidney  disease. 
He  had  been  rather  a  heavy  whiskey-drinker. 

This  quiet  household,  with  one  servant-maid,  lived  on 
year  after  year  in  the  Pottery  House.  Friends  came  in, 
the  girls  went  out,  the  father  drank  himself  more  and 
more  ill.  Outside  in  the  street  there  was  a  continual 
racket  of  the  colliers  and  their  dogs  and  children.  But 
inside  the  pottery  wall  was  a  deserted  quiet. 

In  all  this  ointment  there  was  one  little  fly.  Ted 
Rockley,  the  father  of  the  girls,  had  had  four  daughters, 
and  no  son.  As  his  girls  grew,  he  felt  angry  at  finding 
himself  always  in  a  household  of  women.  He  went  off  to 
London  and  adopted  a  boy  out  of  a  Charity  Institution. 
Enmiie  was  fourteen  years  old,  and  Matilda  sixteen,  when 
their  father  arrived  home  with  his  prodigy,  the  boy  of 
six,  Hadrian. 

Hadrian  was  just  an  ordinary  boy  from  a  Charity 
Home,  with  ordinary  brownish  hair  and  ordinary  bluish 
eyes  and  of  ordinary  rather  cockney  speech.  The  Rock- 
ley  girls — there  were  three  at  home  at  the  time  of  his 
arrival — had  resented  his  being  sprung  on  them.  He, 
with  his  watchful,  charity-institution  instinct,  knew  this 
at  once.  Though  he  was  only  six  years  old,  Hadrian  had 
a  subtle,  jeering  look  on  his  face  when  he  regarded  the 
three  yoimg  women.  They  insisted  he  should  address 
them  as  Cousin:  Cousin  Flora,  Cousin  Matilda,  Cousin 
Emmie.  He  complied,  but  there  seemed  a  mockery  ini 
his  tone. 

The  girls,  however,  were  kind-hearted  by  nature. 
Flora  married  and  left  home.  Hadrian  did  very  much 
as  he  pleased  with  Matilda  and  Emmie,  though  they  had 


150  YOU  TOUCHED  ME 

certain  strictnesses.  He  grew  up  in  the  Pottery  House 
and  about  the  Pottery  premises,  went  to  an  elementary 
school,  and  was  invariably  called  Hadrian  Rockley.  He 
regarded  Cousin  Matilda  and  Cousin  Emmie  with  a  cer- 
tain laconic  indifference,  was  quiet  and  reticent  in  his 
ways.  The  girls  called  him  sly,  but  that  was  unjust. 
He  was  merely  cautious,  and  without  frankness.  His 
Uncle,  Ted  Rockley,  understood  him  tacitly,  their  na- 
tures were  somewhat  akin.  Hadrian  and  the  elderly  man 
had  a  real  but  unemotional  regard  for  one  another. 

When  he  was  thirteen  years  old  the  boy  was  sent  to 
a  High  School  in  the  County  town.  He  did  not  like  it. 
His  Cousin  Matilda  had  longed  to  make  a  little  gentleman 
of  him,  but  he  refused  to  be  made.  He  would  give  a  little 
contemptuous  curve  to  his  lip,  and  take  on  a  shy,  charity- 
boy  grin,  when  refinement  was  thrust  upon  him.  He 
played  truant  from  the  High  School,  sold  his  books,  his 
cap  with  its  badge,  even  his  very  scarf  and  pocket- 
handkerchief,  to  his  school-fellows,  and  went  raking  off 
heaven  knows  where  with  the  money.  So  he  spent  two 
very  unsatisfactory  years. 

When  he  was  fifteen  he  announced  that  he  wanted  to 
leave  England  to  go  to  the  Colonies.  He  had  kept  touch 
with  the  Home.  The  Rockleys  knew  that,  when  Hadrian 
made  a  declaration,  in  his  quiet,  half -jeering  manner,  it 
was  worse  than  useless  to  oppose  him.  So  at  last  the  boy 
departed,  going  to  Canada  under  the  protection  of  the 
Institution  to  which  he  had  belonged.  He  said  good-bye 
to  the  Rockleys  without  a  word  of  thanks,  and  parted, 
it  seemed  without  a  pang.  Matilda  and  Emmie  wept 
often  to  think  of  how  he  left  them:  even  on  their  father's 


YOU  TOUCHED  ME  151 

face  a  queer  look  came.  But  Hadrian  wrote  fairly  regu- 
larly from  Canada.  He  had  entered  some  electricity  works 
near  Montreal,  and  was  doing  well. 

At  last,  however,  the  war  came.  In  his  turn,  Hadrian 
joined  up  and  came  to  Europe.  The  Rockleys  saw  noth- 
ing of  him.  They  lived  on,  just  the  same,  in  the  Pottery 
House.  Ted  Rockley  was  dying  of  a  sort  of  dropsy,  and 
in  his  heart  he  wanted  to  see  the  boy.  When  the  armis- 
tice was  signed,  Hadrian  had  a  long  leave,  and  wrote 
that  he  was  coming  home  to  the  Pottery  House. 

The  girls  were  terribly  fluttered.  To  tell  the  truth, 
they  were  a  little  afraid  of  Hadrian.  Matilda,  tall  and 
thin,  was  frail  in  her  health,  both  girls  were  worn  with 
nursing  their  father.  To  have  Hadrian,  a  young  man  of 
twenty-one,  in  the  house  with  them,  after  he  had  left 
them  so  coldly  five  years  before,  was  a  trying  circum- 
stance. 

They  were  in  a  flutter.  Emmie  persuaded  her  father 
to  have  his  bed  made  finally  in  the  morning-room  down- 
stairs, whilst  his  room  upstairs  was  prepared  for  Hadrian. 
This  was  done,  and  preparations  were  going  on  for  the 
arrival,  when,  at  ten  o'clock  in  the  morning  the  young 
man  suddenly  turned  up,  quite  unexpectedly.  Cousin 
Emmie,  with  her  hair  bobbed  up  in  absurd  little  bobs 
round  her  forehead,  was  busily  polishing  the  stair-rods, 
while  Cousin  Matilda  was  in  the  kitchen  washing  the 
drawing-room  ornaments  in  a  lather,  her  sleeves  rolled 
back  on  her  thin  arms,  and  her  head  tied  up  oddly  and 
coquettishly  in  a  duster. 

Cousin  Matilda  blushed  deep  with  mortification  when 
the  self-possessed  young  man  walked  in  with  his  kit-bag, 


152  YOU  TOUCHED  ME 

and  put  his  cap  on  the  sewing  machine.  He  was  little 
and  self-confident,  with  a  curious  neatness  about  him  that 
still  suggested  the  Charity  Institution.  His  face  was 
brown,  he  had  a  small  moustache,  he  was  vigorous  enough 
in  his  smallness. 

^Well,  is  it  Hadrian!"  exclaimed  Cousin  Matilda, 
wringing  the  lather  off  her  hand.  "We  didn't  expect  you 
till  to-morrow." 

"I  got  off  Monday  night,"  said  Hadrian,  glancing 
round  the  room. 

"Fancy!"  said  Cousin  Matilda.  Then,  having  dried 
her  hands,  she  went  forward,  held  out  her  hand,  and  said: 

"How  are  you?" 

"Quite  well,  thank  you,"  said  Hadrian. 

"You're  quite  a  man,"  said  Cousin  Matilda. 

Hadrian  glanced  at  her.  She  did  not  look  her  best:  so 
thin,  so  large-nosed,  with  that  pink-and-white  checked 
duster  tied  round  her  head.  She  felt  her  disadvantage. 
But  she  had  had  a  good  deal  of  suffering  and  sorrow, 
she  did  not  mind  any  more. 

The  servant  entered — one  that  did  not  know  Hadrian. 

"Come  and  see  my  father,"  said  Cousin  Matilda. 

In  the  hall  they  roused  Cousin  Emmie  like  a  partridge 
from  cover.  She  was  on  the  stairs  pushing  the  bright 
stair-rods  into  place.  Instinctively  her  hand  went  to  the 
little  knobs,  her  front  hair  bobbed  on  her  forehead. 

"Why! "  she  exclaimed,  crossly.  "What  have  you  come 
today  for?" 

"I  got  off  a  day  earlier,"  said  Hadrian,  and  his  man's 
voice  so  deep  and  unexpected  was  like  a  blow  to  Cousin 
Emmie. 


YOU  TOUCHED  ME  153 

"Well,  youVe  caught  us  in  the  midst  of  it,"  she  said, 
with  resentment.  Then  all  three  went  into  the  middle 
room. 

Mr.  Rockley  was  dressed — that  is,  he  had  on  his 
trousers  and  socks — but  he  was  resting  on  the  bed, 
propped  up  just  under  the  window,  from  whence  he  could 
see  his  beloved  and  resplendent  garden,  where  tulips  and 
apple-trees  wefe  ablaze.  He  did  not  look  as  ill  as  he 
was,  for  the  water  puffed  him  up,  and  his  face  kept  its 
colour.  His  stomach  was  much  swollen.  He  glanced 
round  swiftly,  turning  his  eyes  without  turning  his  head. 
He  was  the  wreck  of  a  handsome,  well-built  man. 

Seeing  Hadrian,  a  queer,  unwilling  smile  went  over  his 
face.    The  young  man  greeted  him  sheepishly. 

"You  wouldn't  make  a  life-guardsman,"  he  said.  Do 
you  want  something  to  eat?" 

Hadrian  looked  round — as  if  for  the  meal. 

"I  don't  mind,"  he  said. 

"What  shall  you  have — egg  and  bacon?"  asked  Emmie 
shortly. 

"Yes,  I  don't  mind,"  said  Hadrian. 

The  sisters  went  down  to  the  kitchen,  and  sent  the 
servant  to  finish  the  stairs. 

"Isn't  he  altered?''  said  Matilda,  sotto  voce. 

"Isn't  he!"  said  Cousin  Emmie.    ''What  a.  little  man  I" 

They  both  made  a  grimace,  and  laughed  nervously. 

"Get  the  frying-pan,"  said  Emmie  to  Matilda. 

"But  he's  as  cocky  as  ever,"  said  Matilda,  narrowing 
her  eyes  and  shaking  her  head  knowingly,  as  she  handed 
the  frying-pan. 

"Mannie!"  said  Emmie  sarcastically.    Hadrian's  new- 


154  YOU  TOUCHED  ME 

fledged,  cock-sure  manliness  evidently  found  no  favour 
in  her  eyes. 

"Oh,  he's  not  bad,"  said  Matilda.  "You  don't  want 
to  be  prejudiced  against  him." 

"I'm  not  prejudiced  against  him,  I  think  he's  all  right 
for  looks,"  said  Emmie,  "but  there's  too  much  of  the  little 
mannie  about  him." 

"Fancy  catching  us  like  this,"  said  Matilda. 

"They've  no  thought  for  anything,"  said  Emmie  with 
contempt.  "You  go  up  and  get  dressed,  our  Matilda. 
I  don't  care  about  him.  I  can  see  to  things,  and  you 
can  talk  to  him.    I  shan't." 

"He'll  talk  to  my  father,"  said  Matilda,  meaningful. 

**Sly — /"  exclaimed  Emmie,  with  a  grimace. 

The  sisters  believed  that  Hadrian  had  come  hoping  to 
get  something  out  of  their  father — ^hoping  for  a  legacy. 
And  they  were  not  at  all  sure  he  would  not  get  it. 

Matilda  went  upstairs  to  change.  She  had  thought 
it  all  out  how  she  would  receive  Hadrian,  and  impress 
him.  And  he  had  caught  her  with  her  head  tied  up  in  a 
duster,  and  her  thin  arms  in  a  basin  of  lather.  But  she 
did  not  care.  She  now  dressed  herself  most  scrupulously, 
carefully  folded  her  long,  beautiful,  blonde  hair,  touched 
her  pallor  with  a  little  rouge,  and  put  her  long  string  of 
exquisite  crystal  beads  over  her  soft  green  dress.  Now 
she  looked  elegant,  like  a  heroine  in  a  magazine  illustra- 
tion, and  almost  as  unreal. 

She  found  Hadrian  and  her  father  talking  away.  The 
young  man  was  short  of  speech  as  a  rule,  but  he  could 
find  his  tongue  with  his  "uncle."  They  were  both  sipping 
a  glass  of  brandy,  and  smoking,  and  chatting  like  a  pair 


YOU  TOUCHED  ME  155 

of  old  cronies.    Hadrian  was  telling  about  Canada.    He 
was  going  back  there  when  his  leave  was  up. 

"You  wouldn't  like  to  stop  in  England,  then?"  said 
Mr.  Rockley. 

"No,  I  wouldn't  stop  in  England,"  said  Hadrian. 

"How's  that?  There's  plenty  of  electricians  here," 
said  Mr.  Rockley. 

"Yes.  But  there's  too  much  difference  between  the 
men  and  the  employers  over  here — too  much  of  that  for 
me,"  said  Hadrian. 

The  sick  man  looked  at  him  narrowly,  with  oddly 
smiling  eyes. 

"That's  it,  is  it?"  he  replied. 

Matilda  heard  and  understood.  "So  that's  your  big 
idea,  is  it,  my  little  man,"  she  said  to  herself.  She  had 
always  said  of  Hadrian  that  he  had  no  proper  respect 
for  anybody  or  anything,  that  he  was  sly  and  common. 
She  went  down  to  the  kitchen  for  a  sotto  voce  confab 
with  Emmie. 

"He  thinks  a  rare  lot  of  himself!"  she  whispered. 

"He's  somebody,  he  is!"  said  Emmie  with  contempt. 

"He  thinks  there's  too  much  difference  between  mas- 
ters and  men,  over  here,"  said  Matilda. 

"Is  it  any  different  in  Canada?"  asked  Emmie. 
"Oh  yes — democratic,"  replied  Matilda.    "He  thinks 
they're  all  on  a  level  over  there." 

"Ay,  well  he's  over  here  now,"  said  Emmie  drily,  "so 
he  can  keep  his  place." 

As  they  talked  they  saw  the  young  man  sauntering 
down  the  garden,  looking  casually  at  the  flowers.  He 
had  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  and  his  soldier's  cap  neatly 


156  YOU  TOUCHED  ME 

on  his  head.  He  looked  quite  at  his  ease,  as  if  in  pos- 
session. The  two  women,  fluttered,  watched  him  through 
the  window. 

"We  know  what  he's  come  for,"  said  Emmie  churl- 
ishly. Matilda  looked  a  long  time  at  the  neat  khaki 
figure.  It  had  something  of  the  charity-boy  about  it 
still;  but  now  it  was  a  man's  figure,  laconic,  charged 
with  plebeian  energy.  She  thought  of  the  derisive  pas- 
sion in  his  voice  as  he  had  declaimed  against  the  proper- 
tied classes,  to  her  father. 

*'You  don't  know,  Emmie.  Perhaps  he's  not  come 
for  that,"  she  rebuked  her  sister.  They  were  both  think- 
ing of  the  money. 

They  were  still  watching  the  young  soldier.  He  stood 
away  at  the  bottom  of  the  garden,  with  his  back  to  them, 
his  hands  in  his  pockets,  looking  into  the  water  of  the 
willow  pond.  Matilda's  dark-blue  eyes  had  a  strange, 
full  look  in  them,  the  lids,  with  the  faint  blue  veins  show- 
ing, dropped  rather  low.  She  carried  her  head  light  and 
high,  but  she  had  a  look  of  pain.  The  young  man  at 
the  bottom  of  the  garden  turned  and  looked  up  the  path. 
Perhaps  he  saw  them  through  the  window.  Matilda 
moved  into  shadow. 

That  afternoon  their  father  seemed  weak  and  ill.  He 
was  easily  exhausted.  The  doctor  came,  and  told  Ma- 
tilda that  the  sick  man  might  die  suddenly  at  any 
moment — but  then  he  might  not.  They  must  be  pre- 
pared. 

So  the  day  passed,  and  the  next.  Hadrian  made  him- 
self at  home.  He  went  about  in  the  morning  in  his 
brownish  jersey  and  his  khaki  trousers,  collarless,  his 


YOU  TOUCHED  ME  157 

bare  neck  showing.  He  explored  the  pottery  premises, 
as  if  he  had  some  secret  purpose  in  so  doing,  he  talked 
with  Mr.  Rockley,  when  the  sick  man  had  strength.  The 
two  girls  were  always  angry  when  the  two  men  sat  talk- 
ing together  like  cronies.  Yet  it  was  chiefly  a  kind  of 
politics  they  talked. 

On  the  second  day  after  Hadrian's  arrival,  Matilda 
sat  with  her  father  in  the  evening.  She  was  drawing  a 
picture  which  she  wanted  to  copy.  It  was  very  still, 
Hadrian  was  gone  out  somewhere,  no  one  knew  where, 
and  Emmie  was  busy.  Mr.  Rockley  reclined  on  his  bed, 
looking  out  in  silence  over  his  evening-sunny  garden. 

"If  anything  happens  to  me,  Matilda,"  he  said,  "you 
won't  sell  this  house — ^you'll  stop  here " 

Matilda's  eyes  took  their  slightly  haggard  look  as 
she  stared  at  her  father. 

"Well,  we  couldn't  do  anything  else,"  she  said. 

"You  don't  know  what  you  might  do,"  he  said. 
"Everything  is  left  to  you  and  Emmie,  equally.  You  do 
as  you  like  with  it — only  don't  sell  this  house,  don't  part 
with  it." 

"No,"  she  said. 

"And  give  Hadrian  my  watch  and  chain,  and  a  hun- 
dred pounds  out  of  what's  in  the  bank — and  help  him  if 
he  ever  wants  helping.  I  haven't  put  his  name  in  the 
will." 

"Your  watch  and  chain,  and  a  hundred  pounds — yes. 
But  you'll  be  here  when  he  goes  back  to  Canada,  father.'* 

"You  never  know  what'll  happen,"  said  her  father. 

Matilda  sat  and  watched  him,  with  her  full,  haggard 
eyes,  for  a  long  time,  as  if  tranced.     She  saw  that  he 


158  YOU  TOUCHED  ME 

knew  he  must  go  soon — she   saw  like  a  clairvoyant. 

Later  on  she  told  Emmie  what  her  father  had  said 
about  the  watch  and  chain  and  the  money. 

"What  right  has  he" — he — meaning  Hadrian — "to  my 
father's  watch  and  chain — ^what  has  it  to  do  with  him? 
Let  him  have  the  money,  and  get  off,"  said  Emmie.  She 
loved  her  father. 

That  night  Matilda  sat  late  in  her  room.  Her  heart 
was  anxious  and  breaking,  her  mind  seemed  entranced. 
She  was  too  much  entranced  even  to  weep,  and  all  the 
time  she  thought  of  her  father,  only  her  father.  At  last 
she  felt  she  must  go  to  him. 

It  was  near  midnight.  She  went  along  the  passage 
and  to  his  room.  There  was  a  faint  light  from  the  moon 
outside.  She  listened  at  his  door.  Then  she  softly 
opened  and  entered.  The  room  was  faintly  dark.  She 
heard  a  movement  on  the  bed. 

"Are  you  asleep?"  she  said  softly,  advancing  to  the 
side  of  the  bed. 

"Are  you  asleep?"  she  repeated  gently,  as  she  stood 
at  the  side  of  the  bed.  And  she  reached  her  hand  in 
the  darkness  to  touch  his  forehead.  Delicately,  her  fingers 
met  the  nose  and  the  eyebrows,  she  laid  her  fine,  delicate 
hand  on  his  brow.  It  seemed  fresh  and  smooth — very 
fresh  and  smooth.  A  sort  of  surprise  stirred  her,  in  her 
entranced  state.  But  it  could  not  waken  her.  Gently, 
she  leaned  over  the  bed  and  stirred  her  fingers  over  the 
low-growing  hair  on  his  brow. 

"Can't  you  sleep  to-night?"  she  said. 

There  was  a  quick  stirring  in  the  bed.  "Yes,  I  can," 
a  voice  answered.    It  was  Hadrian's  voice.    She  started 


YOU  TOUCHED  ME  159 

away.  Instantly,  she  was  wakened  from  her  late-at-night 
trance.  She  remembered  that  her  father  was  downstairs, 
that  Hadrian  had  his  room.  She  stood  in  the  darkness 
as  if  stung. 

"Is  it  you,  Hadrian?"  she  said.  "I  thought  it  was 
my  father."  She  was  so  startled,  so  shocked,  that  she 
could  not  move.  The  young  man  gave  an  uncomfortable 
laugh,  and  turned  in  his  bed. 

At  last  she  got  out  of  the  room.  When  she  was  back 
in  her  own  room,  in  the  light,  and  her  door  was  closed, 
she  stood  holding  up  her  hand  that  had  touched  him,  as 
if  it  were  hurt.  She  was  almost  too  shocked,  she  could 
not  endure. 

"Well,"  said  her  calm  and  weary  mind,  "it  was  only  a 
mistake,  why  take  any  notice  of  it." 

But  she  could  not  reason  her  feelings  so  easily.  She 
suffered,  feeling  herself  in  a  false  position.  Her  right 
hand,  which  she  had  laid  so  gently  on  his  face,  on  his 
fresh  skin,  ached  now,  as  if  it  were  really  injured.  She 
could  not  forgive  Hadrian  for  the  mistake:  it  made  her 
dislike  him  deeply. 

Hadrian  too  slept  badly.  He  had  been  awakened  by 
the  opening  of  the  door,  and  had  not  realised  what  the 
question  meant.  But  the  soft,  straying  tenderness  of 
her  hand  on  his  face  startled  something  out  of  his  soul. 
He  was  a  charity  boy,  aloof  and  more  or  less  at  bay. 
The  fragile  exquisiteness  of  her  caress  startled  him  most, 
revealed  unknown  things  to  him. 

In  the  morning  she  could  feel  the  consciousness  in  his 
eyes,  when  she  came  downstairs.  She  tried  to  bear  her- 
self as  if  nothing  at  all  had  happened,  and  she  succeeded. 


i6o  YOU  TOUCHED  ME 

She  had  the  calm  self-control,  self-indifference,  of  one 
who  has  suffered  and  borne  her  suffering.  She  looked 
at  him  from  her  darkish,  almost  drugged  blue  eyes,  she 
met  the  spark  of  consciousness  in  his  eyes,  and  quenched 
it.  And  with  her  long,  fine  hand  she  put  the  sugar  in 
his  coffee. 

But  she  could  not  control  him  as  she  thought  she 
could.  He  had  a  keen  memory  stinging  his  mind,  a  new 
set  of  sensations  working  in  his  consciousness.  Some- 
thing new  was  alert  in  him.  At  the  back  of  his  reticent, 
guarded  mind  he  kept  his  secret  alive  and  vivid.  She 
was  at  his  mercy,  for  he  was  unscrupulous,  his  standard 
was  not  her  standard. 

He  looked  at  her  curiously.  She  was  not  beautiful, 
her  nose  was  too  large,  her  chin  was  too  small,  her  neck 
was  too  thin.  But  her  skin  was  clear  and  fine,  she  had 
a  high-bred  sensitiveness.  This  queer,  brave,  high-bred 
quality  she  shared  with  her  father.  The  charity  boy 
could  see  it  in  her  tapering  fingers,  which  were  white  and 
ringed.  The  same  glamour  that  he  knew  in  the  elderly 
man  he  now  saw  in  the  woman.  And  he  wanted  to  pos- 
sess himself  of  it,  he  wanted  to  make  himself  master  of 
it.  As  he  went  about  through  the  old  pottery-yard,  his 
secretive  mind  schemed  and  worked.  To  be  master  of 
that  strange  soft  delicacy  such  as  he  had  felt  in  her  hand 
upon  his  face, — this  was  what  he  set  himself  towards. 
He  was  secretly  plotting. 

He  watched  Matilda  as  she  went  about,  and  she  be- 
came aware  of  his  attention,  as  of  some  shadow  follow- 
ing her.  But  her  pride  made  her  ignore  it.  When  he 
sauntered  near  her,  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  she  received 


YOU  TOUCHED  ME  i6i 

him  with  that  same  commonplace  kindliness  which  mas- 
tered him  more  than  any  contempt.  Her  superior  breed- 
ing seemed  to  control  him.  She  made  herself  feel  towards 
him  exactly  as  she  had  always  felt:  he  was  a  young  boy 
who  lived  in  the  house  with  them,  but  was  a  stranger. 
Only,  she  dared  not  remember  his  face  under  her  hand. 
When  she  remembered  that,  she  was  bewildered.  Her 
hand  had  offended  her,  she  wanted  to  cut  it  off.  And 
she  wanted,  fiercely,  to  cut  off  the  memory  in  him.  She 
assumed  she  had  done  so. 

One  day,  when  he  sat  talking  with  his  "uncle,"  he 
looked  straight  into  the  eyes  of  the  sick  man,  and  said: 

"But  I  shouldn't  like  to  live  and  die  here  in  Rawsley." 

"No — ^well — ^you  needn't,"  said  the  sick  man. 

"Do  you  think  Cousin  Matilda  likes  it?" 

"I  should  think  so." 

"I  don't  call  it  much  of  a  life,"  said  the  youth.  "How 
much  older  is  she  than  me.  Uncle?" 

The  sick  man  looked  at  the  young  soldier. 

"A  good  bit,"  he  said. 

"Over  thirty?"  said  Hadrian. 

"Well,  not  so  much.    She's  thirty-two." 

Hadrian  considered  a  while. 

"She  doesn't  look  it,"  he  said. 

Again  the  sick  father  looked  at  him. 

"Do  you  think  she'd  like  to  leave  here?"  said  Hadrian. 

"Nay,  I  don't  know,"  replied  the  father,  restive. 

Hadrian  sat  still,  having  his  own  thoughts.  Then  in 
a  small,  quiet  voice,  as  if  he  were  speaking  from  inside 
himself,  he  said: 

"I'd  marry  her  if  you  wanted  me  to." 


i62  YOU  TOUCHED  ME 

The  sick  man  raised  his  eyes  suddenly,  and  stared. 
He  stared  for  a  long  time.  The  youth  looked  inscrutably 
out  of  the  window. 

^'YomT  said  the  sick  man,  mocking,  with  some  con- 
tempt. Hadrian  turned  and  met  his  eyes.  The  two  men 
had  an  inexplicable  understanding. 

"If  you  wasn't  against  it,''  said  Hadrian. 

"Nay,"  said  the  father,  turning  aside,  "I  don't  think 
I'm  against  it.  I've  never  thought  of  it.  But —  But 
Emmie's  the  youngest." 

He  had  flushed,  and  looked  suddenly  more  alive.  Se- 
cretly he  loved  the  boy. 

"You  might  ask  her,"  said  Hadrian. 

The  elder  man  considered. 

"Hadn't  you  better  ask  her  yourself?"  he  said. 

"She'd  take  more  notice  of  you,"  said  Hadrian. 

They  were  both  silent.    Then  Emmie  came  in. 

For  two  days  Mr.  Rockley  was  excited  and  thought- 
ful. Hadrian  went  about  quietly,  secretly,  unquestion- 
ing. At  last  the  father  and  daughter  were  alone  together. 
It  was  very  early  morning,  the  father  had  been  in  much 
pain.    As  the  pain  abated,  he  lay  still,  thinking. 

"Matilda!"  he  said  suddenly,  looking  at  his  daughter. 

"Yes,  I'm  here,"  she  said. 

"Ay!     I  want  you  to  do  something ^" 

She  rose  in  anticipation. 

"Nay,  sit  still. — ^I  want  you  to  marry  Hadrian- 


She  thought  he  was  raving.  She  rose,  bewildered  and 
frightened. 

"Nay,  sit  you  still,  sit  you  still.  You  hear  what  I 
tell  you." 


YOU  TOUCHED  ME  163 

"But  you  don't  know  what  you're  saying,  father." 

"Ay,  I  know  well  enough. — I  want  you  to  many 
Hadrian,  I  tell  you." 

She  was  dumbfounded.    He  was  a  man  of  few  words. 

"You'll  do  what  I  tell  you,"  he  said. 

She  looked  at  him  slowly. 

"What  put  such  an  idea  in  your  mind?"  she  said 
proudly. 

"He  did." 

Matilda  almost  looked  her  father  down,  her  pride  was 
so  offended. 

"Why,  it's  disgraceful,"  she  said. 

"Why?" 

She  watched  him  slowly. 

"What  do  you  ask  me  for?"  she  said.  "It's  dis- 
gusting." 

"The  lad's  sound  enough,"  he  replied,  testily. 

"You'd  better  tell  him  to  clear  out,"  she  said  coldly. 

He  turned  and  looked  out  of  the  window.  She  sat 
flushed  and  erect,  for  a  long  time.  At  length  her  father 
turned  to  her,  looking  really  malevolent. 

"If  you  won't,"  he  said,  "you're  a  fool,  and  I'll  make 
you  pay  for  your  foolishness,  do  you  see?" 

Suddenly  a  cold  fear  gripped  her.  She  could  not  be- 
lieve her  senses.  She  was  terrified  and  bewildered.  She 
stared  at  her  father,  believing  him  to  be  delirious,  or 
mad,  or  drunk.    What  could  she  do? 

"I  tell  you,"  he  said.  "I'll  send  for  Whittle  to-morrow 
if  you  don't.  You  shall  neither  of  you  have  anything  of 
mine." 

Whittle  was  the  solicitor.    She  understood  her  father 


i64  YOU  TOUCHED  ME 

well  enough:  he  would  send  for  his  solicitor,  and  make  a 
will  leaving  all  his  property  to  Hadrian:  neither  she  nor 
Emmie  should  have  anything.  It  was  too  much.  She 
rose  and  went  out  of  the  room,  up  to  her  own  room,  where 
she  locked  herself  in. 

She  did  not  come  out  for  some  hours.  At  last,  late 
at  night,  she  confided  in  Emmie. 

"The  sliving  demon,  he  wants  the  money,"  said  Emmie. 
"My  father's  out  of  his  mind." 

The  thought  that  Hadrian  merely  wanted  the  money 
was  another  blow  to  Matilda.  She  did  not  love  the  impos- 
sible youth — ^but  she  had  not  yet  learned  to  think  of  him 
as  a  thing  of  evil.    He  now  became  hideous  to  her  mind. 

Emmie  had  a  little  scene  with  her  father  next  day. 

"You  don't  mean  what  you  said  to  our  Matilda  yes- 
terday, do  you,  father?"  she  asked  aggressively. 

"Yes,"  he  replied. 

"What,  that  you'll  alter  your  will?" 

"Yes."  I 

"You  won't,"  said  his  angry  daughter. 

But  he  looked  at  her  with  a  malevolent  little  smile. 

"Annie!"  he  shouted.    "Annie I" 

He  had  still  power  to  make  his  voice  carry.  The 
servant  maid  came  in  from  the  kitchen. 

"Put  your  things  on,  and  go  down  to  Whittle's  office, 
and  say  I  want  to  see  Mr.  Whittle  as  soon  as  he  can,  and 
will  he  bring  a  will-form  " 

The  sick  man  lay  back  a  little — he  could  not  lie  down. 
His  daughter  sat  as  if  she  had  been  struck.  Then  she 
left  the  room. 


YOU  TOUCHED  ME  165 

Hadrian  was  pottering  about  in  the  garden.  She  went 
straight  down  to  him. 

"Here,"  she  said.  "You'd  better  get  off.  You'd  better 
take  your  things  and  go  from  here,  quick." 

Hadrian  looked  slowly  at  the  infuriated  girl. 

"Who  says  so?"  he  asked. 

'We  say  so — get  off,  youVe  done  enough  mischief  and 
damage." 

"Does  Uncle  say  so?" 

"Yes,  he  does." 

"I'll  go  and  ask  him." 

But  like  a  fury  Emmie  barred  his  way. 

"No,  you  needn't.  You  needn't  ask  him  nothing  at 
all.    We  don't  want  you,  so  you  can  go." 

"Uncle's  boss  here." 

"A  man  that's  dying,  and  you  crawling  round  and 
working  on  him  for  his  money! — ^you're  not  fit  to  live." 

"Oh I"  he  said.  "Who  says  I'm  working  for  his 
money?" 

"I  say.  But  my  father  told  our  Matilda,  and  she 
knows  what  you  are.  She  knows  what  you're  after.  So 
you  might  as  well  clear  out,  for  all  you'll  get — ^gutter- 
snipe!" 

He  turned  his  back  on  her,  to  think.  It  had  not  oc- 
curred to  him  that  they  would  think  he  was  after  the 
money.  He  did  want  the  money — ^badly.  He  badly 
wanted  to  be  an  employer  himself,  not  one  of  the  em- 
ployed. But  he  knew,  in  his  subtle,  calculating  way, 
that  it  was  not  for  money  he  wanted  Matilda.  He  wanted 
both  the  money  and  Matilda.  But  he  told  himself  the 
two  desires  were  separate,  not  one.    He  could  not  do 


i66  YOU  TOUCHED  ME 

with  Matilda,  withotd  the  money.  But  he  did  not  want 
her  jor  the  money. 

When  he  got  this  clear  in  his  mind,  he  sought  for  an 
opportunity  to  tell  it  her,  lurking  and  watching.  But 
she  avoided  him.  In  the  evening  the  lawyer  came.  Mr. 
Rockley  seemed  to  have  a  new  access  of  strength — a  will 
was  drawn  up,  making  the  previous  arrangements  wholly 
conditional.  The  old  will  held  good,  if  Matilda  would 
consent  to  marry  Hadrian.  If  she  refused  then  at  the 
end  of  six  months  the  whole  property  passed  to  Hadrian. 

Mr.  Rockley  told  this  to  the  young  man,  with  malevo- 
lent satisfaction.  He  seemed  to  have  a  strange  desire, 
quite  unreasonable,  for  revenge  upon  the  women  who  had 
surrounded  him  for  so  long,  and  served  him  so  care- 
fully. 

"Tell  her  in  front  of  me,"  said  Hadrian. 

So  Mr.  Rockley  sent  for  his  daughters. 

At  last  they  came,  pale,  mute,  stubborn.  Matilda 
seemed  to  have  retired  far  off,  Emmie  seemed  like  a 
fighter  ready  to  fight  to  the  death.  The  sick  man  re- 
clined on  the  bed,  his  eyes  bright,  his  puffed  hand  trem- 
bling. But  his  face  had  again  some  of  its  old,  bright 
handsomeness.  Hadrian  sat  quiet,  a  little  aside:  the 
indomitable,  dangerous  charity  boy. 

"There's  the  will,"  said  their  father,  pointing  them  to 
the  paper. 

The  two  women  sat  mute  and  immovable,  they  took  no 
notice. 

"Either  you  marry  Hadrian,  or  he  has  everything," 
said  the  father  with  satisfaction. 

"Then  let  him  have  everything,"  said  Matilda  coldly. 


YOU  TOUCHED  ME  167 

"He's  not!  He's  not!"  cried  Emmie  fiercely.  "He's 
not  going  to  have  it.    The  gutter-snipe!" 

An  amused  look  came  on  her  father's  face. 

"You  hear  that,  Hadrian,"  he  said. 

"I  didn't  offer  to  marry  Cousin  Matilda  for  the 
money,"  said  Hadrian,  flushing  and  moving  on  his  seat. 

Matilda  looked  at  him  slowly,  with  her  dark-blue, 
drugged  eyes.  He  seemed  a  stra.nge  little  monster  to 
her. 

"Why,  you  liar,  you  know  you  did,"  cried  Emmie. 

The  sick  man  laughed.  Matilda  continued  to  gaze 
strangely  at  the  young  man. 

"She  knows  I  didn't,"  said  Hadrian. 

He  too  had  his  courage,  as  a  rat  has  indomitable 
courage  in  the  end.  Hadrian  had  some  of  the  neatness, 
the  reserve,  the  underground  quality  of  the  rat.  But  he 
had  perhaps  the  ultimate  courage,  the  most  unquench- 
able courage  of  all. 

Emmie  looked  at  her  sister. 

"Oh,  well,"  she  said.  "Matilda — don't  you  bother. 
Let  him  have  everything,  we  can  look  after  ourselves." 

"I  know  he'll  take  everything,"  said  Matilda  ab- 
stractedly. 

Hadrian  did  not  answer.  He  knew  in  fact  that  if 
Matilda  refused  him  he  would  take  everything,  and  go 
off  with  it. 

"A  clever  little  mannie — I"  said  Emmie,  with  a  jeering 
grimace. 

The  father  laughed  noiselessly  to  himself.  But  he 
was  tired.  .  .  . 

"Go  on  then,"  he  said.    "Go  on,  let  me  be  quiet." 


i68  YOU  TOUCHED  ME 

Emmie  turned  and  looked  at  him. 

"You  deserve  what  you've  got,"  she  said  to  her  father 
bluntly. 

"Go  on,"  he  answered  mildly.    "Go  on." 

Another  night  passed — a  night  nurse  sat  up  with  Mr. 
Rockley.  Another  day  came.  Hadrian  was  there  as 
ever,  in  his  woollen  jersey  and  coarse  khaki  trousers  and 
bare  neck.  Matilda  went  about,  frail  and  distant,  Emmie 
black-browed  in  spite  of  her  blondness.  They  were  aJl 
quiet,  for  they  did  not  intend  the  mystified  servant  to 
learn  everything. 

Mr.  Rockley  had  very  bad  attacks  of  pain,  he  could 
not  breathe.  The  end  seemed  near.  They  all  went  about 
quiet  and  stoical,  all  unyielding.  Hadrian  pondered 
within  himself.  If  he  did  not  marry  Matilda  he  would 
go  to  Canada  with  twenty  thousand  pounds.  This  was 
itself  a  very  satisfactory  prospect.  If  Matilda  consented 
he  would  have  nothing — she  would  have  her  own  money. 

Emmie  was  the  one  to  act.  She  went  off  in  search  of 
the  solicitor  and  brought  him  home  with  her.  There 
was  an  interview,  and  Whittle  tried  to  frighten  the  youth 
into  withdrawal — ^but  without  avail.  Then  clergyman 
and  relatives  were  summoned — but  Hadrian  stared  at 
them  and  took  no  notice.    It  made  him  angry,  however. 

He  wanted  to  catch  Matilda  alone.  Many  days  went 
by,  and  he  was  not  successful:  she  avoided  him.  At  last, 
lurking,  he  surprised  her  one  day  as  she  came  to  pick 
gooseberries,  and  he  cut  off  her  retreat.  He  came  to  the 
point  at  once. 

"You  don't  want  me  then?"  he  said,  in  his  subtle, 
insinuating  voice. 


YOU  TOUCHED  ME  169 

"I  don't  want  to  speak  to  you,"  she  said,  averting  her 
face. 

"You  put  your  hand  on  me,  though,"  he  said.  "You 
shouldn't  have  done  that,  and  then  I  should  never  have 
thought  of  it.    You  shouldn't  have  touched  me." 

"If  you  were  anything  decent,  you'd  know  that  was  a 
mistake,  and  forget  it,"  she  said. 

"I  know  it  was  a  mistake — but  I  shan't  forget  it.  If 
you  wake  a  man  up,  he  can't  go  to  sleep  again  because 
he's  told  to." 

"If  you  had  any  decent  feeling  in  you,  you'd  have 
gone  away,"  she  replied. 

"I  didn't  want  to,"  he  replied. 

She  looked  away  into  the  distance.    At  last  she  asked: 

"What  do  you  persecute  me  for,  if  it  isn't  for  the 
money?  I'm  old  enough  to  be  your  mother.  In  a  way 
I've  been  your  mother." 

"Doesn't  matter,"  he  said.  "You've  been  no  mother 
to  me.  Let  us  marry  and  go  out  to  Canada — ^you  might 
as  well — you've  touched  me." 

She  was  white  and  trembling.  Suddenly  she  flushed 
'  with  anger. 

"It's  so  indecent,'*  she  said. 

"How?"  he  retorted.    "You  touched  me." 

But  she  walked  away  from  him.  She  felt  as  if  he  had 
trapped  her.  He  was  angry  and  depressed,  he  felt  again 
despised. 

That  same  evening,  she  went  into  her  father's  room. 

"Yes,"  she  said  suddenly.    "I'll  marry  him." 

Her  father  looked  up  at  her.  He  was  in  pain,  and 
very  ill. 


170  YOU  TOUCHED  ME 

"You  like  him  now,  do  you?"  he  said,  with  a  faint 
smile. 

She  looked  down  into  his  face,  and  saw  death  not  far 
off.    She  turned  and  went  coldly  out  of  the  room. 

The  solicitor  was  sent  for,  preparations  were  hastily 
made.  In  all  the  interval  Matilda  did  not  speak  to 
Hadrian,  never  answered  him  if  he  addressed  her.  He 
approached  her  in  the  morning. 

"You've  come  round  to  it,  then?"  he  said,  giving  her  a 
pleasant  look  from  his  twinkling,  almost  kindly  eyes. 
She  looked  down  at  him  and  turned  aside.  She  looked 
down  on  him  both  literally  and  figuratively.  Still  he 
persisted,  and  triumphed. 

Emmie  raved  and  wept,  the  secret  flew  abroad.  But 
Matilda  was  silent  and  unmoved,  Hadrian  was  quiet  and 
satisfied,  and  nipped  with  fear  also.  But  he  held  out 
against  his  fear.  Mr.  Rockley  was  very  ill,  but  im- 
changed. 

On  the  third  day  the  marriage  took  place.  Matilda 
and  Hadrian  drove  straight  home  from  the  registrar,  and 
went  straight  into  the  room  of  the  dying  man.  His  face 
lit  up  with  a  clear  twinkling  smile. 

"Hadrian, — ^you've  got  her?"  he  said,  a  little  hoarsely. 

"Yes,"  said  Hadrian,  who  was  pale  round  the  gills. 

"Ay,  my  lad,  I'm  glad  you're  mine,"  replied  the  dying 
man.    Then  he  turned  his  eyes  closely  on  Matilda.  , 

"Let's  look  at  you,  Matilda,"  he  said.  Then  his  voice 
went  strange  and  unrecognisable.    "Kiss  me,"  he  said. 

She  stooped  and  kissed  him.  She  had  never  kissed 
him  before,  not  since  she  was  a  tiny  child.  But  she  was 
quiet,  very  still. 


YOU  TOUCHED  ME  171 

"Kiss  him,"  the  dying  man  said. 

Obediently,  Matilda  put  forward  her  mouth  and  kissed 
the  young  husband. 

"That's  rightl  That's  rightl"  murmured  the  dying 
man. 


SAMSON  AND  DELILAH 


SAMSON  AND  DELILAH 

A  MAN  got  down  from  the  motor-omnibus  that  runs 
from  Penzance  to  St.  Just-in-Penwith,  and  turned  north- 
wards, uphill  towards  the  Polestar.  It  was  only  half-past 
six,  but  already  the  stars  were  out,  a  cold  little  wind  was 
blowing  from  the  sea,  and  the  crystalline,  three-pulse  flash 
of  the  lighthouse  below  the  cliffs  beat  rhythmically  in  the 
first  darkness. 

The  man  was  alone.  He  went  his  way  unhesitating, 
but  looked  from  side  to  side  with  cautious  curiosity.  Tall, 
ruined  power-houses  of  tin-mines  loomed  in  the  darkness 
from  time  to  time,  like  remnants  of  some  by-gone  civil- 
isation. The  lights  of  many  miners'  cottages  scattered 
on  the  hilly  darkness  twinkled  desolate  in  their  disorder, 
yet  twinkled  with  the  lonely  homeliness  of  the  Celtic  night. 

He  tramped  steadily  on,  always  watchful  with  curiosity. 
He  was  a  tall,  well-built  man,  apparently  in  the  prime 
of  life.  His  shoulders  were  square  and  rather  stiff,  he 
leaned  forwards  a  little  as  he  went,  from  the  hips,  like 
a  man  who  must  stoop  to  lower  his  height.  But  he  did 
not  stoop  his  shoulders:  he  bent  his  straight  back  from 
the  hips. 

Now  and  again  short,  stump,  thick-legged  figures  of 
Cornish  miners  passed  him,  and  he  invariably  gave 
them  good-night,  as  if  to  insist  that  he  was  on  his  own 
ground.  He  spoke  with  the  west-Cornish  intonation.  And 
as  he  went  along  the  dreary  road,  looking  now  at  the 
lights  of  the  dwellings  on  land,  now  at  the  lights  away  to 

175 


176  SAMSON  AND  DELILAH 

sea,  vessels  veering  round  in  sight  of  the  Longships 
Lighthouse,  the  whole  of  the  Atlantic  Ocean  in  dark- 
ness and  space  between  him  and  America,  he  seemed  a 
little  excited  and  pleased  with  himself,  watchful,  thrilled, 
veering  along  in  a  sense  of  mastery  and  of  power  in 
conflict. 

The  houses  began  to  close  on  the  road,  he  was  entering 
the  straggling,  formless,  desolate  mining  village,  that  he 
knew  of  old.  On  the  left  was  a  little  space  set  back  from 
the  road,  and  cosy  lights  of  an  inn.  There  it  was.  He 
peered  up  at  the  sign:  "The  Tinners'  Rest."  But  he 
could  not  make  out  the  name  of  the  proprietor.  He 
listened.  There  was  excited  talking  and  laughing,  a 
woman's  voice  laughing  shrilly  among  the  men's. 

Stooping  a  little,  he  entered  the  warmly-lit  bar.  The 
lamp  was  burning,  a  buxom  woman  rose  from  the  white- 
scrubbed  deal  table  where  the  black  and  white  and  red 
cards  were  scattered,  and  several  men,  miners,  lifted  their 
faces  from  the  game. 

The  stranger  went  to  the  counter,  averting  his  face. 
His  cap  was  pulled  down  over  his  brow. 

"Good-evening!"  said  the  landlady,  in  her  rather  ingra- 
tiating voice. 

"Good-evening.    A  glass  of  ale." 

"A  glass  of  ale,"  repeated  the  landlady  suavely.  "Cold 
night — ^but  bright." 

"Yes,"  the  man  assented,  laconically.  Then  he  added, 
when  nobody  expected  him  to  say  any  more:  "Season- 
able weather." 

"Quite  seasonable,  quite,"  said  the  landlady.  "Thank 
you." 


SAMSON  AND  DELILAH  177 

The  man  lifted  his  glass  straight  to  his  lips,  and  emptied 
it.  He  put  it  down  again  on  the  zinc  counter  with  a 
click. 

''Let's  have  another,"  he  said. 

The  woman  drew  the  beer,  and  the  man  went  away 
with  his  glass  to  the  second  table,  near  the  fire.  The 
woman,  after  a  moment's  hesitation,  took  her  seat  again 
at  the  table  with  the  card-players.  She  had  noticed  the 
man:  a  big  fine  fellow,  well  dressed,  a  stranger. 

But  he  spoke  with  that  Cornish-Yankee  accent  she 
accepted  as  the  natural  twang  among  the  miners. 

The  stranger  put  his  foot  on  the  fender  and  looked 
into  the  fire.  He  was  handsome,  well  coloured,  with  well- 
drawn  Cornish  eyebrows  and  the  usual  dark,  bright, 
mindless  Cornish  eyes.  He  seemed  abstracted  in  thought. 
Then  he  watched  the  card-party. 

The  woman  was  buxom  and  healthy,  with  dark  hair 
and  small,  quick  brown  eyes.  She  was  bursting  with  life 
and  vigour,  the  energy  she  threw  into  the  game  of  cards 
excited  all  the  men,  they  shouted,  and  laughed,  and  the 
woman  held  her  breast,  shrieking  with  laughter. 

"Oh,  my,  it'll  be  the  death  o'  me,"  she  panted.  "Now 
come  on,  Mr.  Trevorrow,  play  fair.  Play  fair,  I  say, 
or  I  s'll  put  the  cards  down." 

"Play  fair!  Why  who's  played  unfair?"  ejaculated  Mr. 
Trevorrow.  "Do  you  mean  t'accuse  me,  as  I  haven't 
played  fair,  Mrs.  Nankervis?" 

"I  do.  I  say  it,  and  I  mean  it.  Haven't  you  got  the 
queen  of  spades?  Now  come  on,  no  dodging  round  me. 
/  know  you've  got  that  queen,  as  well  as  I  know  my 
name's  Alice." 


178  SAMSON  AND  DELILAH 

"Well — if  your  name*s  Alice,  you'll  have  to  have  it '* 

"Ay  now — ^what  did  I  say?  Did  ever  you  see  such  a 
man?  My  word,  but  your  missus  must  be  easy  took  in, 
by  the  looks  of  things." 

And  off  she  went  into  peals  of  laughter.  She  was  inter- 
rupted by  the  entrance  of  four  men  in  khaki,  a  short, 
stumpy  sergeant  of  middle  age,  a  young  corporal,  and 
two  young  privates.   The  woman  leaned  back  in  her  chair. 

"Oh  my!"  she  cried.  "If  there  isn't  the  boys  back: 
looking  perished,  I  believe " 

"Perished,  Ma!"  exclaimed  the  sergeant.    "Not  yet." 

"Near  enough,"  said  a  young  private,  uncouthly. 

The  woman  got  up. 

"I'm  sure  you  are,  my  dears.  You'll  be  wanting  your 
suppers,  I'll  be  bound." 

"We  could  do  with  'em." 

"Let's  have  a  wet  first,"  said  the  sergeant. 

The  woman  bustled  about  getting  the  drinks.  The 
soldiers  moved  to  the  fire,  spreading  out  their  hands. 

"Have  your  suppers  in  here,  will  you?"  she  said.  "Or 
in  the  kitchen?" 

"Let's  have  it  here,"  said  the  sergeant.  "More  cosier 
— if  you  don't  mind." 

"You  shall  have  it  where  you  like,  boys,  where  you 
like." 

She  disappeared.  In  a  minute  a  girl  of  about  sixteen 
came  in.  She  was  tall  and  fresh,  with  dark,  young,  ex- 
pressionless eyes,  and  well-drawn  brows,  and  the  imma- 
ture softness  and  mindlessness  of  the  sensuous  Celtic  type. 

"Ho,  Maryann!  Evenin'  Maryann!  How's  Maryann, 
now?"  came  the  multiple  greeting. 


SAMSON  AND  DELILAH  179 

She  replied  to  everybody  in  a  soft  voice,  a  strange, 
soft  aplomb  that  was  very  attractive.  And  she  moved 
round  with  rather  mechanical,  attractive  movements,  as 
if  her  thoughts  were  elsewhere.  But  she  had  always  this 
dim  far-awayness  in  her  bearing:  a  sort  of  modesty.  The 
strange  man  by  the  fire  watched  her  curiously.  There 
was  an  alert,  inquisitive,  mindless  curiosity  on  his  well- 
coloured  face. 

"I'll  have  a  bit  of  supper  with  you,  if  I  might,"  he  said. 

She  looked  at  him,  with  her  clear,  unreasoning  eyes, 
just  like  the  eyes  of  some  non-human  creature. 

"I'll  ask  mother,"  she  said.  Her  voice  was  soft-breath- 
ing, gently  singsong. 

When  she  came  in  again: 

"Yes,"  she  said,  almost  whispering.  "What  will  you 
have?" 

"What  have  you  got?"  he  said,  looking  up  into  her 
face. 

"There's  cold  meat " 

"That's  for  me,  then." 

The  stranger  sat  at  the  end  of  the  table,  and  ate  with 
the  tired,  quiet  soldiers.  Now,  the  landlady  was  inter- 
ested in  him.  Her  brow  was  knit  rather  tense,  there  was 
a  look  of  panic  in  her  large,  healthy  face,  but  her  small 
brown  eyes  were  fixed  most  dangerously.  She  was  a 
big  woman,  but  her  eyes  were  small  and  tense.  She  drew 
near  the  stranger.  She  wore  a  rather  loud-patterned 
flannelette  blouse,  and  a  dark  skirt. 

"What  will  you  have  to  drink  with  your  supper?"  she 
asked,  and  there  was  a  new,  dangerous  note  in  her  voice. 

He  moved  uneasily. 


i8o  SAMSON  AND  DELILAH 

"Oh,  1^1  go  on  with  ale." 

She  drew  him  another  glass.  Then  she  sat  down  on  the 
bench  at  the  table  with  him  and  the  soldiers,  and  fixed 
him  with  her  attention. 

"You've  come  from  St.  Just,  have  you?"  she  said. 

He  looked  at  her  with  those  clear,  dark,  inscrutable 
Cornish  eyes,  and  answered  at  length: 

"No,  from  Penzance." 

"Penzance! — ^but  you're  not  thinking  of  going  back 
there  to-night?" 

"No— no." 

He  still  looked  at  her  with  those  wide,  clear  eyes  that 
seemed  like  very  bright  agate.  Her  anger  began  to  rise. 
It  was  seen  on  her  brow.  Yet  her  voice  was  still  suave 
and  deprecating. 

"I  thought  not — ^but  you're  not  living  in  these  parts, 
are  you?" 

"No — no,  I'm  not  living  here."  He  was  always  slow 
in  answering,  as  if  something  intervened  between  him 
and  any  outside  question. 

"Oh,  I  see,"  she  said.  "You've  got  relations  down 
here."      * 

Again  he  looked  straight  into  her  eyes,  as  if  looking 
her  into  silence. 

"Yes,"  he  said. 

He  did  not  say  any  more.  She  rose  with  a  flounce. 
The  anger  was  tight  on  her  brow.  There  was  no  more 
laughing  and  card-playing  that  evening,  though  she  kept 
up  her  motherly,  suave,  good-humoured  way  with  the 
men.    But  they  knew  her,  they  were  all  afraid  of  her. 

The  supper  was  finished,  the  table  cleared,  the  stranger 


SAMSON  AND  DELILAH  i8i 

did  not  go.  Two  of  the  young  soldiers  went  off  to  bed, 
with  their  cheery: 

"Good-night,  Ma.    Good-night,  Maryann." 

The  stranger  talked  a  little  to  the  sergeant  about  the 
war,  which  was  in  its  first  year,  about  the  new  army,  a 
fragment  of  which  was  quartered  in  this  district,  about 
America. 

The  landlady  darted  looks  at  him  from  her  small  eyes, 
minute  by  minute  the  electric  storm  welled  in  her  bosom, 
as  still  he  did  not  go.  She  was  quivering  with  suppressed, 
violent  passion,  something  frightening  and  abnormal.  She 
could  not  sit  still  for  a  moment.  Her  heavy  form  seemed 
to  flash  with  sudden,  involuntary  movements  as  the 
minutes  passed  by,  and  still  he  sat  there,  and  the  tension 
on  her  heart  grew  unbearable.  She  watched  the  hands 
of  the  clock  move  on.  Three  of  the  soldiers  had  gone  to 
bed,  only  the  crop-headed,  terrier-like  old  sergeant  re- 
mained. 

The  landlady  sat  behind  the  bar  fidgeting  spasmodically 
with  the  newspaper.  She  looked  again  at  the  clock.  At 
last  it  was  five  minutes  to  ten. 

"Gentlemen — the  enemy!"  she  said,  in  her  diminished, 
furious  voice.  "Time,  please.  Time,  my  dears.  And 
good-night  alll" 

The  men  began  to  drop  out,  with  a  brief  good-night. 
It  was  a  minute  to  ten.    The  landlady  rose. 

"Come,"  she  said.    "I'm  shutting  the  door." 

The  last  of  the  miners  passed  out.  She  stood,  stout  and 
menacing,  holding  the  door.  Still  the  stranger  sat  on  by 
the  fire,  his  black  overcoat  opened,  smoking. 


i82  SAMSON  AND  DELILAH 

"We're  closed  now,  Sir,"  came  the  perilous,  narrowed 
voice  of  the  landlady. 

The  little,  dog-like,  hard-headed  sergeant  touched  the 
arm  of  the  stranger. 

"Closing  time,"  he  said. 

The  stranger  turned  round  in  his  seat,  and  his  quick- 
moving,  dark,  jewel-like  eyes  went  from  the  sergeant  to 
the  landlady. 

"I'm  stopping  here  to-night,"  he  said,  in  his  laconic 
Cornish- Yankee  accent. 

The  landlady  seemed  to  tower.  Her  eyes  lifted 
strangely,  frightening. 

"Oh,  indeed!"  she  cried.  "Oh,  indeed!  And  whose 
orders  are  those,  may  I  ask?" 

He  looked  at  her  again. 

"My  orders,"  he  said. 

Involuntarily  she  shut  the  door,  and  advanced  like 
a  great,  dangerous  bird.  Her  voice  rose,  there  was  a 
touch  of  hoarseness  in  it. 

"And  what  might  your  orders  be,  if  you  please?"  she 
cried.    "Who  might  you  be,  to  give  orders,  in  the  house?" 

He  sat  still,  watching  her. 

"You  know  who  I  am,"  he  said.  "At  least,  I  know  who 
you  are." 

"Oh,  do  you?  Oh,  do  you?  And  who  am  /  then,  if 
you'll  be  so  good  as  to  tell  me?" 

He  stared  at  her  with  his  bright,  dark  eyes. 

"You're  my  Missis,  you  are,"  he  said.  "And  you  know 
it,  as  well  as  I  do." 

She  started  as  if  something  had  exploded  in  her. 

Her  eyes  lifted  and  flared  madly. 


SAMSON  AND  DELILAH  183 

''Do  I  know  it,  indeed  I"  she  cried.  "I  know  no  such 
thing!  I  know  no  such  thing!  Do  you  think  a  man's 
going  to  w^lk  into  this  bar,  and  tell  me  off-hand  I'm  his 
Missis,  and  I'm  going  to  believe  him? — I  say  to  you,  who- 
ever you  may  be,  you're  mistaken.  I  know  myself  for  no 
Missis  of  yours,  and  I'll  thank  you  to  go  out  of  this  house, 
this  minute,  before  I  get  those  that  will  put  you  out." 

The  man  rose  to  his  feet,  stretching  his  head  towards 
her  a  little.  He  was  a  handsomely  built  Cornishman  in 
the  prime  of  life. 

"What  you  say,  eh?  You  don't  know  me?"  he  said,  in 
his  singsong  voice,  emotionless,  but  rather  smothered  and 
pressing:  it  reminded  one  of  the  girl's.  "I  should  know 
you  anywhere,  you  see.  I  should!  I  shouldn't  have  to 
look  twice  to  know  you,  you  see.  You  see,  now,  don't 
you?" 

The  woman  was  baffled. 

"So  you  may  say,"  she  replied,  staccato.  "So  you  may 
say.  That's  easy  enough.  My  name's  known,  and  re- 
spected, by  most  people  for  ten  miles  round.  But  I  don't 
know  youy 

Her  voice  ran  to  sarcasm.  "I  can't  say  I  know  you. 
You're  a  perject  stranger  to  me,  and  I  don't  believe  I've 
ever  set  eyes  on  you  before  to-night." 

Her  voice  was  very  flexible  and  sarcastic. 

"Yes,  you  have,"  replied  the  man,  in  his  reasonable  way. 
"Yes,  you  have.  Your  name's  my  name,  and  that  girl 
Maryann  is  my  girl;  she's  my  daughter.  You're  my 
Missis  right  enough.    As  sure  as  I'm  Willie  Nankervis." 

He  spoke  as  if  it  were  an  accepted  fact.    His  face  was 


i84  SAMSON  AND  DELILAH 

handsome,  with  a  strange,  watchful  alertness  and  a  funda- 
mental fixity  of  intention  that  maddened  her. 

"You  villain!"  she  cried.  "You  villain,  to  come  to  this 
house  and  dare  to  speak  to  me.  You  villain,  you  down- 
right rascal!" 

He  looked  at  her. 

"Ay/'  he  said,  unmoved.  "All  that."  He  was  uneasy 
before  her.  Only  he  was  not  afraid  of  her.  There  was 
something  impenetrable  about  him,  like  his  eyes,  which 
were  as  bright  as  agate. 

She  towered,  and  drew  near  to  him  menacingly. 

"You're  going  out  of  this  house,  aren't  you?" — She 
stamped  her  foot  in  sudden  madness.    ''This  minuted 

He  watched  her.    He  knew  she  wanted  to  strike  him. 

"No,"  he  said,  with  suppressed  emphasis.  "I've  told 
you,  I'm  stopping  here." 

He  was  afraid  of  her  personality,  but  it  did  not  alter 
him.  She  wavered.  Her  small,  tawny-brown  eyes  con- 
centrated in  a  point  of  vivid,  sightless  fury,  like  a  tiger's. 
The  man  was  wincing,  but  he  stood  his  ground.  Then  she 
bethought  herself.    She  would  gather  her  forces. 

"We'll  see  whether  you're  stopping  here,"  she  said. 
And  she  turned,  with  a  curious,  frightening  lifting  of 
her  eyes,  and  surged  out  of  the  room.  The  man,  listening, 
heard  her  go  upstairs,  heard  her  tapping  at  a  bedroom 
door,  heard  her  saying:  "Do  you  mind  coming  down  a 
minute,  boys?     I  want  you.    I'm  in  trouble." 

The  man  in  the  bar  took  off  his  cap  and  his  black  over- 
coat, and  threw  them  on  the  seat  behind  him.  His  black 
hair  was  short  and  touched  with  grey  at  the  temples.  He 
wore  a  well-cut,  well-fitting  suit  of  dark  grey,  American 


SAMSON  AND  DELILAH  185 

in  style,  and  a  turn-down  collar.  He  looked  well-to-do, 
a  fine,  solid  figure  of  a  man.  The  rather  rigid  look  of  the 
shoulders  came  from  his  having  had  his  collar-bone 
twice  broken  in  the  mines. 

The  little  terrier  of  a  sergeant,  in  dirty  khaki,  looked  at 
him  furtively. 

"She's  your  Missis?"  he  asked,  jerking  his  head  in  the 
direction  of  the  departed  woman. 

"Yes,  she  is,"  barked  the  man.  "She's  that,  sure 
enough." 

"Not  seen  her  for  a  long  time,  haven't  ye?" 

"Sixteen  years  come  March  month." 

"Hm!" 

And  the  sergeant  laconically  resumed  his  smoking. 

The  landlady  was  coming  back,  followed  by  the  three 
young  soldiers,  who  entered  rather  sheepishly,  in  trousers 
and  shirt  and  stocking-feet.  The  woman  stood  histrioni- 
cally at  the  end  of  the  bar,  and  exclaimed: 

"That  man  refuses  to  leave  the  house,  claims  he's  stop- 
ping the  night  here.  You  know  very  well  I  have  no  bed, 
don't  you?  And  this  house  doesn't  accommodate  travel- 
lers. Yet  he's  going  to  stop  in  spite  of  all!  But  not 
while  I've  a  drop  of  blood  in  my  body,  that  I  declare 
with  my  dying  breath.  And  not  if  you  men  are  worth 
the  name  of  men,  and  will  help  a  woman  as  has  no  one 
to  help  her." 

Her  eyes  sparkled,  her  face  was  flushed  pink.  She  was 
drawn  up  like  an  Amazon. 

The  young  soldiers  did  not  quite  know  what  to  do. 
They  looked  at  the  man,  they  looked  at  the  sergeant, 


i86  SAMSON  AND  DELILAH 

one  of  them  looked  down  and  fastened  his  braces  on  the 
second  button. 

"What  say,  sergeant?"  asked  one  whose  face  twinkled 
for  a  little  devilment. 

"Man  says  he's  husband  to  Mrs.  Nankervis,"  said  the 
sergeant. 

"He's  no  husband  of  mine.  I  declare  I  never  set  eyes 
on  him  before  this  night.  It's  a  dirty  trick,  nothing  else, 
it's  a  dirty  trick." 

"Why  you're  a  liar,  saying  you  never  set  eyes  on  me 
before,"  barked  the  man  near  the  hearth.  "You're  mar- 
ried to  me,  and  that  girl  Maryann  you  had  by  me — ^well 
enough  you  know  it." 

The  young  soldier  looked  on  in  delight,  the  sergeant 
smoked  imperturbed. 

"Yes,"  sang  the  landlady,  slowly  shaking  her  head  in 
supreme  sarcasm,  "it  sounds  very  pretty,  doesn't  it?  But 
you  see  we  don't  believe  a  word  of  it,  and  how  are  you 
going  to  prove  it?"    She  smiled  nastily. 

The  man  watched  in  silence  for  a  moment,  then  he  said: 

"It  wants  no  proof." 

"Oh,  yes,  but  it  does!  Oh,  yes,  but  it  does,  sir,  it  wants 
a  lot  of  proving!"  sang  the  lady's  sarcasm.  "We're  not 
such  gulls  as  all  that,  to  swallow  your  words  whole." 

But  he  stood  unmoved  near  the  fire.  She  stood  with  one 
hand  resting  on  the  zinc-covered  bar,  the  sergeant  sat 
with  legs  crossed,  smoking,  on  the  seat  halfway  between 
them,  the  three  young  soldiers  in  their  shirts  and  braces 
stood  wavering  in  the  gloom  behind  the  bar.  There 
was  silence. 

"Do  you  know  anything  of  the  whereabouts  of  your 


SAMSON  AND  DELILAH  187 

husband,  Mrs.  Nankervis?  Is  he  still  living?"  asked 
the  sergeant,  in  his  judicious  fashion. 

Suddenly  the  landlady  began  to  cry,  great  scalding 
tears,  that  left  the  young  men  aghast. 

^'I  know  nothing  of  him,"  she  sobbed,  feeling  for  her 
pocket  handkerchief.  "He  left  me  when  Maryann  was 
a  baby,  went  mining  to  America,  and  after  about  six 
months  never  wrote  a  line  nor  sent  me  a  penny  bit.  I 
can't  say  whether  he's  aJive  or  dead,  the  villain.  All  I've 
heard  of  him's  to  the  bad — and  I've  heard  nothing  for 
years  an'  all,  now."     She  sobbed  violently. 

The  golden-skinned,  handsome  man  near  the  fire 
watched  her  as  she  wept.  He  was  frightened,  he  was 
troubled,  he  was  bewildered,  but  none  of  his  emotions 
altered  him  underneath. 

There  was  no  sound  in  the  room  but  the  violent  sobbing 
of  the  landlady.    The  men,  one  and  all,  were  overcome. 

"Don't  you  think  as  you'd  better  go,  for  to-night?" 
said  the  sergeant  to  the  man,  with  sweet  reasonableness. 
"You'd  better  leave  it  a  bit,  and  arrange  something 
between  you.  You  can't  have  much  claim  on  a  woman, 
I  should  imagine,  if  it's  how  she  says.  And  youVe  come 
down  on  her  a  bit  too  sudden-like." 

The  landlady  sobbed  heart-brokenly.  The  man 
watched  her  large  breasts  shaken.  They  seemed  to  cast 
a  spell  over  his  mind. 

"How  I've  treated  her,  that's  no  matter,"  he  replied. 
**I've  come  back,  and  I'm  going  to  stop  in  my  own  home, 
' — for  a  bit,  anyhow.    There  you've  got  it." 

"A  dirty  action,"  said  the  sergeant,  his  face  flushing 
dark.    "A  dirty  action,  to  come,  after  deserting  a,  woman 


i88  SAMSON  AND  DELILAH 

for  that  number  of  years,  and  want  to  force  yourself  on 
her!    A  dirty  action — as  isn't  allowed  by  the  law." 

The  landlady  wiped  her  eyes. 

"Never  you  mind  about  law  nor  nothing,"  cried  the 
man,  in  a  strange,  strong  voice.  "I'm  not  moving  out 
of  this  public  to-night." 

The  woman  turned  to  the  soldiers  behind  her,  and 
said  in  a  wheedling,  sarcastic  tone: 

"Are  we  going  to  stand  it,  boys? — Are  we  going  to  be 
done  like  this.  Sergeant  Thomas,  by  a  scoundrel  and  a 
bully  as  has  led  a  life  beyond  mention,  in  those  American 
mining-camps,  and  then  wants  to  come  back  and  make 
havoc  of  a  poor  woman's  life  and  savings,  after  having 
left  her  with  a  baby  in  arms  to  struggle  as  best  she  might? 
It's  a  crying  shame  if  nobody  will  stand  up  for  me — a. 
crying  shame !" 

The  soldiers  and  the  little  sergeant  were  bristling.  The 
woman  stooped  and  rummaged  under  the  counter  for  a 
minute.  Then,  unseen  to  the  man  away  near  the  fire, 
she  threw  out  a  plaited  grass  rope,  such  as  is  used  for 
binding  bales,  and  left  it  lying  near  the  feet  of  the  young 
soldiers,  in  the  gloom  at  the  back  of  the  bar. 

Then  she  rose  and  fronted  the  situation. 

"Come  now,"  she  said  to  the  man,  in  a  reasonable, 
coldly-coaxing  tone,  "put  your  coat  on  and  leave  us  alone. 
Be  a  man,  and  not  worse  than  a  brute  of  a  German.  You 
can  get  a  bed  easy  enough  in  St.  Just,  and  if  you've 
nothing  to  pay  for  it  sergeant  would  lend  you  a  couple 
of  shillings,  I'm  sure  he  would." 

All  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  man.    He  was  looking  down 


SAMSON  AND  DELILAH  189 

at  the  woman  like  a  creature  spell-bound  or  possessed  by 
some  devil's  own  intention. 

"IVe  got  money  of  my  own,"  he  said.  "Don't  you  be 
frightened  for  your  money,  I've  plenty  of  that,  for  the 
time." 

"Well,  then,"  she  coaxed,  in  a  cold,  almost  sneering 
propitiation,  "put  your  coat  on  and  go  where  you're 
wanted — be  a  man,  not  a  brute  of  a  German." 

She  had  drawn  quite  near  to  him,  in  her  challenging 
coaxing  intentness.  He  looked  down  at  her  with  his 
bewitched  face. 

"No,  I  shan't,"  he  said.  "I  shan't  do  no  such  thing. 
You'll  put  me  up  for  to-night." 

"Shall  I?"  she  cried.  And  suddenly  she  flung  her 
arms  round  him,  hung  on  to  him  with  all  her  powerful 
weight,  calling  to  the  soldiers:  "Get  the  rope,  boys,  and 
fasten  him  up.    Alfred — ^John,  quick  now " 

The  man  reared,  looked  round  with  maddened  eyes, 
and  heaved  his  powerful  body.  But  the  woman  was 
powerful  also,  and  very  heavy,  and  was  clenched  with 
the  determination  of  death.  Her  face,  with  its  exulting, 
horribly  vindictive  look,  was  turned  up  to  him  from  his 
own  breast;  he  reached  back  his  head  frantically,  to 
get  away  from  it.  Meanwhile  the  young  soldiers,  after 
having  watched  this  frightful  Laocoon  swaying  for  a 
moment,  stirred,  and  the  malicious  one  darted  swiftly  with 
the  rope.     It  was  tangled  a  little. 

"Give  me  the  end  here,"  cried  the  sergeant. 

Meanwhile  the  big  man  heaved  and  struggled,  swung 
the  woman  round  against  the  seat  and  the  table,  in  his 
convulsive  effort  to  get  free.    But  she  pinned  down  his 


190  SAMSON  AND  DELILAH 

arms  like  a  cuttlefish  wreathed  heavily  upon  him.  And 
he  heaved  and  swayed,  and  they  crashed  about  the  room, 
the  soldiers  hopping,  the  furniture  bumping. 

The  young  soldier  had  got  the  rope  once  round,  the 
brisk  sergeant  helping  him.  The  woman  sank  heavily 
lower,  they  got  the  rope  round  several  times.  In  the 
struggle  the  victim  fell  over  against  the  table.  The  ropes 
tightened  till  they  cut  his  arms.  The  woman  clung  to  his 
knees.  Another  soldier  ran  in  a  flash  of  genius,  and  fast- 
ened the  strange  man's  feet  with  the  pair  of  braces.  Seats 
had  crashed  over,  the  table  was  thrown  against  the  wall, 
but  the  man  was  bound,  his  arms  pinned  against  his 
sides,  his  feet  tied.  He  lay  half  fallen,  sunk  against  the 
table,  still  for  a  moment. 

The  woman  rose,  and  sank,  faint,  on  to  the  seat  against 
the  wall.  Her  breast  heaved,  she  could  not  speak,  she 
thought  she  was  going  to  die.  The  bound  man  lay  against 
the  overturned  table,  his  coat  all  twisted  and  pulled  up 
beneath  the  ropes,  leaving  the  loins  exposed.  The  soldiers 
stood  around,  a  little  dazed,  but  excited  with  the  row. 

The  man  began  to  struggle  again,  heaving  instinctively 
against  the  ropes,  taking  great,  deep  breaths.  His  face, 
with  its  golden  skin,  flushed  dark  and  surcharged,  he 
heaved  again.  The  great  veins  in  his  neck  stood  out.  But 
it  was  no  good,  he  went  relaxed.  Then  again,  suddenly, 
he  jerked  his  feet. 

* 'Another  pair  of  braces,  William,"  cried  the  excited 
soldier.  He  threw  himself  on  the  legs  of  the  bound  man, 
and  managed  to  fasten  the  knees.  Then  again  there  was 
stillness.    They  could  hear  the  clock  tick. 

The  woman  looked  at  the  prostrate  figure,  the  strong, 


SAMSON  AND  DELILAH  191 

straight  limbs,  the  strong  back  bound  in  subjection,  the 
wide-eyed  face  that  reminded  her  of  a  calf  tied  in  a  sack 
in  a  cart,  only  its  head  stretched  dumbly  backwards. 
And  she  triumphed. 

The  bound-up  body  began  to  struggle  again.  She 
watched  fascinated  the  muscles  working,  the  shoulders, 
the  hips,  the  large,  clean  thighs.  Even  now  he  might  break 
the  ropes.  She  was  afraid.  But  the  lively  young  soldier 
sat  on  the  shoulders  of  the  bound  man,  and  after  a  few 
perilous  moments,  there  was  stillness  again. 

^'Now,"  said  the  judicious  sergeant  to  the  bound  man, 
"if  we  untie  you,  will  you  promise  to  go  off  and  make 
no  more  trouble." 

"You'll  not  untie  him  in  here,"  cried  the  woman.  "I 
wouldn't  trust  him  as  far  as  I  could  blow  him." 

There  was  silence. 

"We  might  carry  him  outside,  and  undo  him  there,"  said 
the  soldier.  "Then  we  could  get  the  policeman,  if  he 
made  any  more  bother." 

"Yes,"  said  the  sergeant.  "We  could  do  that."  Then 
again,  in  an  altered,  almost  severe  tone,  to  the  prisoner. 
"If  we  undo  you  outside,  will  you  take  your  coat  and  go 
without  creating  any  more  disturbance?" 

But  the  prisoner  would  not  answer,  he  only  lay  with 
wide,  dark,  bright  eyes,  like  a  bound  animal.  There  was 
a  space  of  perplexed  silence. 

"Well  then,  do  as  you  say,"  said  the  woman  irritably. 
"Carry  him  out  amongst  you,  and  let  us  shut  up  the 
house." 

They  did  so.  Picking  up  the  bound  man,  the  four 
soldiers  staggered  clumsily  into  the  silent  square  in  front 


192  SAMSON  AND  DELILAH 

of  the  inn,  the  woman  following  with  the  cap  and  the 
overcoat.  The  young  soldiers  quickly  unfastened  the 
braces  from  the  prisoner's  legs,  and  they  hopped  indoors. 
They  were  in  their  stocking-feet,  and  outside  the  stars 
flashed  cold.  They  stood  in  the  doorway  watching.  The 
man  lay  quite  still  on  the  cold  ground. 

"Now,"  said  the  sergeant,  in  a  subdued  voice,  "111 
loosen  the  knot,  and  he  can  work  himself  free,  if  you 
go  in.  Missis." 

She  gave  a  last  look  at  the  dishevelled,  bound  man, 
as  he  sat  on  the  ground.  Then  she  went  indoors,  fol- 
lowed quickly  by  the  sergeant.  Then  they  were  heard 
locking  and  barring  the  door. 

The  man  seated  on  the  ground  outside  worked  and 
strained  at  the  rope.  But  it  was  not  so  easy  to  undo  him- 
self even  now.  So,  with  hands  bound,  making  an  effort, 
he  got  on  his  feet,  and  went  and  worked  the  cord  against 
the  rough  edge  of  an  old  wall.  The  rope,  being  of  a  kind 
of  plaited  grass,  soon  frayed  and  broke,  and  he  freed 
himself.  He  had  various  contusions.  His  arms  were 
hurt  and  bruised  from  the  bonds.  He  rubbed  them 
slowly.  Then  he  pulled  his  clothes  straight,  stooped,  put 
on  his  cap,  struggled  into  his  overcoat,  and  walked  away. 

The  stars  were  very  brilliant.  Clear  as  crystal,  the  beam 
from  the  lighthouse  under  the  cliffs  struck  rhythmically 
on  the  night.  Dazed,  the  man  walked  along  the  road 
past  the  church-yard.  Then  he  stood  leaning  up  against 
a  wall,  for  a  long  time. 

He  was  roused  because  his  feet  were  so  cold.  So  he 
pulled  himself  together,  and  turned  again  in  the  silent 
night,  back  towards  the  inn. 


SAMSON  AND  DELILAH  193 

The  bar  was  in  darkness.  But  there  was  a  light  in  the 
kitchen.  He  hesitated.  Then  very  quietly  he  tried  the 
door. 

He  was  surprised  to  find  it  open.  He  entered,  and 
quietly  closed  it  behind  him.  Then  he  went  down  the 
step  past  the  bar-counter,  and  through  to  the  lighted  door- 
way of  the  kitchen.  There  sat  his  wife,  planted  in  front 
of  the  range,  where  a  furze  fire  was  burning.  She  sat 
in  a  chair  full  in  front  of  the  range,  her  knees  wide  apart 
on  the  fender.  She  looked  over  her  shoulder  at  him  as 
he  entered,  but  she  did  not  speak.  Then  she  stared  in  the 
fire  again. 

It  was  a  small,  narrow  kitchen.  He  dropped  his  cap 
on  the  table  that  was  covered  with  yellowish  American 
cloth,  and  took  a  seat  with  his  back  to  the  wall,  near  the 
oven.  His  wife  still  sat  with  her  knees  apart,  her  feet  on 
the  steel  fender  and  stared  into  the  fire,  motionless.  Her 
skin  was  smooth  and  rosy  in  the  firelight.  Everything  in 
the  house  was  very  clean  and  bright.  The  man  sat  silent, 
too,  his  head  dropped.    And  thus  they  remained. 

It  was  a  question  who  would  speak  first.  The  woman 
leaned  forward  and  poked  the  ends  of  the  sticks  in 
between  the  bars  of  the  range.  He  lifted  his  head  and 
looked  at  her. 

"Others  gone  to  bed,  have  they?"  he  asked. 

But  she  remained  closed  in  silence. 

"  'S  a  cold  night,  out,"  he  said,  as  if  to  himself. 

And  he  laid  his  large,  yet  well-shapen  workman's  hand 
on  the  top  of  the  stove,  that  was  polished  black  and  smooth 
as  velvet.  She  would  not  look  at  him,  yet  she  glanced 
out  of  the  corners  of  her  eyes. 


194  SAMSON  AND  DELILAH 

His  eyes  were  fixed  brightly  on  her,  the  pupils  large  and 
electric  like  those  of  a  cat. 

"I  should  have  picked  you  out  among  thousands," 
he  said.  "Though  you^re  bigger  than  I^d  have  believed. 
Fine  flesh  youVe  made." 

She  was  silent  for  some  time.  Then  she  turned  in  her 
chair  upon  him. 

"What  do  you  think  of  yourself,"  she  said,  "coming 
back  on  me  like  this  after  over  fifteen  year?  You  don't 
think  I've  not  heard  of  you,  neither,  in  Butte  City  and 
elsewhere?" 

He  was  watching  her  with  his  clear,  translucent, 
unchallenged  eyes. 

"Yes,"  he  said.  "Chaps  comes  an'  goes — ^IVe  heard 
tell  of  you  from  time  to  time." 

She  drew  herself  up. 

"And  what  lies  have  you  heard  about  me?"  she  de- 
manded superbly. 

"I  dunno  as  I've  heard  any  lies  at  all — 'cept  as  you  was 
getting  on  very  well,  like." 

His  voice  ran  warily  and  detached.  Her  anger  stirred 
again  in  her,  violently.  But  she  subdued  it,  because  of 
the  danger  there  was  in  him,  and  more,  perhaps,  because 
of  the  beauty  of  his  head  and  his  level-drawn  brows, 
which  she  could  not  bear  to  forfeit. 

"That's  more  than  I  can  say  of  you/*  she  said.  "I've 
heard  more  harm  than  good  about  you/' 

"Ay,  I  dessay,"  he  said,  looking  in  the  fire.  It  was  a 
long  time  since  he  had  seen  the  furze  burning,  he  said 
to  himself .  There  was  a  silence,  during  which  she  watched 
his  face. 


SAMSON  AND  DELILAH  195 

"Do  you  call  yourself  a  man?  she  said,  more  in  con- 
temptuous reproach  than  in  anger.  "Leave  a  woman  as 
youVe  left  me,  you  don't  care  to  what! — and  then  to 
turn  up  in  this  fashion,  without  a  word  to  say  for  your- 
self." 

He  stirred  in  his  chair,  planted  his  feet  apart,  and  rest- 
ing his  arms  on  his  knees,  looked  steadily  into  the  fire, 
without  answering.  So  near  to  her  was  his  head,  and 
the  close  black  hair,  she  could  scarcely  refrain  from 
starting  away,  as  if  it  would  bite  her. 

"Do  you  call  that  the  action  of  a  man?''  she  repeated. 

"No,"  he  said,  reaching  and  poking  the  bits  of  wood 
into  the  fire  with  his  fingers.  "I  didn't  call  it  anything, 
as  I  know  of.  It's  no  good  calling  things  by  any  names 
whatsoever,  as  I  know  of." 

She  watched  him  in  his  actions.  There  was  a  longer 
and  longer  pause  between  each  speech,  though  neither 
knew  it. 

"I  wonder  what  you  think  of  yourself  I"  she  exclaimed, 
with  vexed  emphasis.  "I  wonder  what  sort  of  a  fellow  you 
take  yourself  to  be!"  She  was  really  perplexed  as  well 
as  angry, 

"Well,"  he  said,  lifting  his  head  to  look  at  her.  "I  guess 
I'll  answer  for  my  own  faults,  if  everybody  else'll  answer 
for  theirs." 

Her  heart  beat  fiery  hot  as  he  lifted  his  face  to  her. 
She  breathed  heavily,  averting  her  face,  almost  losing  her 
self-control. 

"And  what  do  you  take  me  to  be?"  she  cried,  in  real 
helplessness. 

His  face  was  lifted  watching  her,  watching  her  soft. 


196  SAMSON  AND  DELILAH 

averted  face,  and  the  softly  heaving  mass  of  her  breasts. 

*'I  take  you,"  he  said,  with  that  laconic  truthfulness 
which  exercised  such  power  over  her,  "to  be  the  deuce  of 
a  fine  woman — darn  me  if  you're  not  as  fine  a  built  woman 
as  I've  seen,  handsome  with  it  as  well.  I  shouldn't  have 
expected  you  to  put  on  such  handsome  flesh:  'struth  I 
shouldn't." 

Her  heart  beat  fiery  hot,  as  he  watched  her  with  those 
bright  agate  eyes,  fixedly. 

"Been  very  handsome  to  you,  for  fifteen  years,  my 
sakes!"  she  replied. 

He  made  no  answer  to  this,  but  sat  with  his  bright, 
quick  eyes  upon  her. 

Then  he  rose.  She  started  involuntarily.  But  he  only 
said,  in  his  laconic,  measured  way: 

"It's  warm  in  here  now." 

And  he  pulled  off  his  overcoat,  throwing  it  on  the 
table.    She  sat  as  if  slightly  cowed,  whilst  he  did  so. 

"Them  ropes  has  given  my  arms  something,  by  Ga-ard," 
he  drawled,  feeling  his  arms  with  his  hands. 

Still  she  sat  in  her  chair  before  him,  slightly  cowed. 

"You  was  sharp,  wasn't  you,  to  catch  me  like  that, 
eh?"  he  smiled  slowly.  "By  Ga-ard,  you  had  me  fixed 
proper,  proper  you  had.  Darn  me,  you  fixed  me  up  proper 
— ^proper,  you  did." 

He  leaned  forwards  in  his  chair  towards  her. 

"I  don't  think  no  worse  of  you  for  it,  no,  darned  if  I 
do.  Fine  pluck  in  a  woman's  what  I  admire.  That  I  do, 
indeed." 

She  only  gazed  into  the  fire. 

"We  fet  from  the  start,  we  did.    And  my  word,  you 


SAMSON  AND  DELILAH  197 

begin  again  quick  the  minute  you  see  me,  you  did.  Dam 
me,  you  was  too  sharp  for  me.  A  darn  fine  woman,  puts 
up  a  dam  good  fight.  Darn  me  if  I  could  find  a  woman 
in  all  the  darn  States  as  could  get  me  down  like  that. 
Wonderful  fine  woman  you  be,  truth  to  say,  at  this 
minute." 

She  only  sat  glowering  into  the  fire. 

"As  grand  a  pluck  as  a  man  could  wish  to  find  in  a 
woman,  true  as  I'm  here,"  he  said,  reaching  forward  his 
hand  and  tentatively  touching  her  between  her  full,  warm 
breasts,  quietly. 

She  started,  and  seemed  to  shudder.  But  his  hand 
insinuated  itself  between  her  breasts,  as  she  continued  to 
gaze  in  the  fire. 

"And  don't  you  think  I've  come  back  here  a-begging," 
he  said.  "I've  more  than  one  thousand  pounds  to  my 
name,  I  have.  And  a  bit  of  a  fight  for  a  how-de-do  pleases 
me,  that  it  do.  But  that  doesn't  mean  as  you're  going  to 
deny  as  you're  my  Missis    .    .    •" 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH 

A  YOUNG  man  came  out  of  the  Victoria  station,  looking 
undecidedly  at  the  taxi-cabs,  dark-red  and  black,  pressing 
against  the  curb  under  the  glass  roof.  Several  men  in 
great-coats  and  brass  buttons  jerked  themselves  erect  to 
catch  his  attention,  at  the  same  time  keeping  an  eye  on 
the  other  people  as  they  filtered  through  the  open  door- 
ways of  the  station.  Berry,  however,  was  occupied  by  one 
of  the  men,  a  big,  burly  fellow  whose  blue  eyes  glared 
back  and  whose  red-brown  moustache  bristled  in  defiance. 

"Do  you  want  a  cab,  Sir?"  the  man  asked,  in  a  half- 
mocking,  challenging  voice. 

Berry  hesitated  still. 

"Are  you  Daniel  Sutton?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,"  replied  the  other  defiantly,  with  imeasy  con- 
science. 

"Then  you  are  my  uncle,"  said  Berry. 

They  were  alike  in  colouring,  and  somewhat  in  features, 
but  the  taxi  driver  was  a  powerful,  well-fleshed  man  who 
glared  at  the  world  aggressively,  being  really  on  the  de- 
fensive against  his  own  heart.  His  nephew,  of  the  same 
height,  was  thin,  well-dressed,  quiet  and  indifferent  in  his 
manner.    And  yet  they  were  obviously  kin. 

"And  who  the  devil  are  you?"  asked  the  taxi  driver. 

"I'm  Daniel  Berry,"  replied  the  nephew. 

"Well,  I'm  damned — never  saw  you  since  you  were  a 
kid." 

201 


202  THE  PRIMROSE  PATH 

Rather  awkwardly  at  this  late  hour  the  two  shook 
hands.     "How  are  you,  lad?" 

"All  right.    I  thought  you  were  in  Australia." 

"Been  back  three  months — ^bought  a  couple  of  these 
damned  things," — he  kicked  the  tyre  of  his  taxi-cab  in 
affectionate  disgust.    There  was  a  moment's  silence. 

"Oh,  but  I'm  going  back  out  there.  I  can't  stand  this 
cankering,  rotten-hearted  hell  of  a  country  any  more; 
you  want  to  come  out  to  Sydney  with  me,  lad.  That's  the 
place  for  you — ^beautiful  place,  oh,  you  could  wish  for 
nothing  better.  And  money  in  it,  too. — How's  your 
mother?" 

"She  died  at  Christmas,"  said  the  young  man. 

"Dead!  What! — our  Anna!"  The  big  man's  eyes 
stared,  and  he  recoiled  in  fear.  "God,  lad,"  he  said, 
*^at's  three  of  'em  gone!" 

The  two  men  looked  away  at  the  people  passing  along 
the  pale  grey  pavements,  imder  the  wall  of  Trinity 
Church. 

"Well,  strike  me  lucky!"  said  the  taxi  driver  at  last, 
out  of  breath.  "She  wor  th'  best  o'  th'  bunch  of  'em. 
I  see  nowt  nor  hear  nowt  from  any  of  'em — they're  not 
worth  it,  I'll  be  damned  if  they  are, — our  sermon-lapping 
Adela  and  Maud,"  he  looked  scornfully  at  his  nephew. 
— "But  she  was  the  best  of  'em,  our  Anna  was,  that's  a 
fact." 

He  was  talking  because  he  was  afraid. 

"An'  after  a  hard  life  like  she'd  had.  How  old  was 
she,  lad?" 

"Fifty-five." 

"Fifty-five  .  .  ."     He  hesitated.     Then,  in  a  rather 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH  203 

hushed  voice,  he  asked  the  question  that  frightened  him: 
"And  what  was  it  then?" 

"Cancer." 

"Cancer  again — like  Julia!  I  never  knew  there  was 
cancer  in  our  family.  Oh  my  good  God,  our  poor  Anna, 
after  the  life  she'd  had! — What,  lad,  do  you  see  any 
God  at  the  back  of  that? — I'm  damned  if  I  do." 

He  was  glaring,  very  blue-eyed  and  fierce,  at  his 
nephew.    Berry  lifted  his  shoulders  slightly. 

"God?"  went  on  the  taxi  driver,  in  a  curious,  intense 
tone.  "You've  only  to  look  at  the  folk  in  the  street  to 
know  there's  nothing  keeps  it  going  but  gravitation.  Look 
at  'em.  Look  at  him!" — A  mongrel-looking  man  was 
nosing  past.  "Wouldn't  he  murder  you  for  your  watch- 
chain,  but  that  he's  afraid  of  society?  He's  got  it  in 
him.  .  .  .  Look  at  'em." 

Berry  watched  the  towns-people  go  by,  and,  sensitively 
feeling  his  uncle's  antipathy,  it  seemed  he  was  watching 
a  sort  of  danse  macabre  of  ugly  criminals. 

"Did  ever  you  see  such  a  God-forsaken  crew  creeping 
about!  It  gives  you  the  very  horrors  to  look  at  'em.  I 
sit  in  this  damned  car  and  watch  'em  till,  I  can  tell  you, 
I  feel  like  running  the  cab  amuck  among  'em,  and  run- 
ning myself  to  kingdom  come " 

Berry  wondered  at  this  outburst.  He  knew  his  uncle 
was  the  black-sheep,  the  youngest,  the  darling  of  his 
mother's  family.  He  knew  him  to  be  at  outs  with  respec- 
tability, mixing  with  the  looser,  sporting  type,  all  betting 
and  drinking  and  showing  dogs  and  birds,  and  racing. 
As  a  critic  of  life,  however,  he  did  not  know  him.  But 
the  young  man  felt  curiously  understanding.     "He  uses 


204  THE  PRIMROSE  PATH 

words  like  I  do,  he  talks  nearly  as  I  talk,  except  that  I 
shouldn^t  say  those  things.  But  I  might  feel  like  that, 
in  myself,  if  I  went  a  certain  road." 

"IVe  got  to  go  to  Watmore,^*'  he  said.  "Can  you 
take  me?" 

"When  d^ou  want  to  go?"  asked  the  uncle  fiercely. 

"Now." 

"Come  on  then.  What  d'yer  stand  gassin'  on  th'  cause- 
way for?" 

The  nephew  took  his  seat  beside  the  driver.  The  cab 
began  to  quiver,  then  it  started  forward  with  a  whirr. 
The  uncle,  his  hands  and  feet  acting  mechanically,  kept 
his  blue  eyes  fixed  on  the  highroad  into  whose  traffic  the 
car  was  insinuating  its  way.  Berry  felt  curiously  as  if 
he  were  sitting  beside  an  older  development  of  himself. 
His  mind  went  back  to  his  mother.  She  had  been  twenty 
years  older  than  this  brother  of  hers,  whom  she  had  loved 
so  dearly. — ^*'He  was  one  of  the  most  affectionate  little 
lads,  and  such  a  curly  head!  I  could  never  have  believed 
he  would  grow  into  the  great,  coarse  bully  he  is — for 
he^s  nothing  else.  My  father  made  a  god  of  him — ^well, 
it's  a  good  thing  his  father  is  dead.  He  got  in  with  that 
sporting  gang,  that's  what  did  it.  Things  were  made  too 
easy  for  him,  and  so  he  thought  of  no  one  but  himself, 
and  this  is  the  result." 

Not  that  "Joky"  Sutton  was  so  very  black  a  sheep. 
He  had  lived  idly  till  he  was  eighteen,  then  had  suddenly 
married  a  young,  beautiful  girl  with  clear  brows  and  dark 
grey  eyes,  a  factory  girl.  Having  taken  her  to  live  with 
his  parents  he,  lover  of  dogs  and  pigeons,  went  on  to  the 
staff  of  a  sporting  paper.    But  his  wife  was  without  uplift 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH  205 

or  warmth.  Though  they  made  money  enough,  their 
house  was  dark  and  cold  and  uninviting.  He  had  two  or 
three  dogs,  and  the  whole  attic  was  turned  into  a  great 
pigeon-house.  He  and  his  wife  lived  together  roughly, 
with  no  warmth,  no  refinement,  no  touch  of  beauty  any- 
where, except  that  she  was  beautiful.  He  was  a  bluster- 
ing, impetuous  man,  she  was  rather  cold  in  her  soul,  did 
not  care  about  anything  very  much,  was  rather  capable 
and  close  with  money.  And  she  had  a  common  accent  in 
her  speech.  He  outdid  her  a  thousand  times  in  coarse 
language,  and  yet  that  cold  twang  in  her  voice  tortured 
him  with  shame  that  he  stamped  down  in  bullying  and 
in  becoming  more  violent  in  his  own  speech. 

Only  his  dogs  adored  him,  and  to  them,  and  to  his 
pigeons,  he  talked  with  rough,  yet  curiously  tender 
caresses  while  they  leaped  and  fluttered  for  joy. 

After  he  and  his  wife  had  been  married  for  seven 
years  a  little  girl  was  born  to  them,  then  later,  another. 
But  the  husband  and  wife  drew  no  nearer  together.  She 
had  an  affection  for  her  children  almost  like  a  cool  gov- 
erness. He  had  an  emotional  man's  fear  of  sentiment, 
which  helped  to  nip  his  wife  from  putting  out  any  shoots. 
He  treated  his  children  roughly,  and  pretended  to  think 
it  a  good  job  when  one  was  adopted  by  a  well-to-do 
maternal  aunt.  But  in  his  soul  he  hated  his  wife  that  she 
could  give  away  one  of  his  children.  For  after  her  cool 
fashion,  she  loved  him.  With  a  chaos  of  a  man  such  as 
he,  she  had  no  chance  of  being  anything  but  cold  and 
hard,  poor  thing.     For  she  did  love  him. 

In  the  end  he  fell  absurdly  and  violently  in  love  with  a 
rather  sentimental  young  woman  who  read  Browning. 


2o6  THE  PRIMROSE  PATH 

He  made  his  wife  an  allowance  and  established  a  new 
menage  with  the  young  lady,  shortly  after  emigrating 
with  her  to  Australia.  Meanwhile  his  wife  had  gone  to 
live  with  a  publican,  a  widower,  with  whom  she  had  had 
one  of  those  curious,  tacit  understandings  of  which  quiet 
women  are  capable,  something  like  an  arrangement  for 
provision  in  the  future. 

This  was  as  much  as  the  nephew  knew.  He  sat  beside 
his  uncle,  wondering  how  things  stood  at  the  present. 
They  raced  lightly  out  past  the  cemetery  and  along  the 
boulevard,  then  turned  into  the  rather  grimy  country. 
The  mud  flew  out  on  either  side,  there  was  a  fine  mist  of 
rain  which  blew  in  their  faces.    Berry  covered  himself  up. 

In  the  lanes  the  high  hedges  shone  black  with  rain. 
The  silvery  grey  sky,  faintly  dappled,  spread  wide  over 
the  low,  green  land.  The  elder  man  glanced  fiercely  up 
the  road,  then  turned  his  red  face  to  his  nephew. 

"And  how're  you  going  on,  lad?"  he  said  loudly.  Berry 
noticed  that  his  uncle  was  slightly  uneasy  of  him.  It 
'  made  him  also  uncomfortable.  The  elder  man  had  evi- 
dently something  pressing  on  his  soul. 

"Who  are  you  living  with  in  town?"  asked  the  nephew. 
"Have  you  gone  back  to  Aunt  Maud?" 

"No,"  barked  the  uncle.  "She  wouldn't  have  me.  I 
offered  to — I  wanted  to — ^but  she  wouldn't." 

"You're  alone  then?" 

"No,  I'm  not  alone." 

He  turned  and  glared  with  his  fierce  blue  eyes  at  his 
nephew,  but  said  no  more  for  some  time.  The  car  ran 
on  through  the  mud,  under  the  wet  wall  of  the  park. 

"That  other  devil  tried  to  poison  me,"  suddenly  shouted 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH  207 

the  elder  man.  "The  one  I  went  to  Australia  with."  At 
which,  in  spite  of  himself,  the  younger  smiled  in  secret. 

"How  was  that?"  he  asked. 

"Wanted  to  get  rid  of  me.  She  got  in  with  another 
fellow  on  the  ship.  ...  By  Jove,  I  was  bad." 

"Where?— on  the  ship?" 

"No,"  bellowed  the  other.  "No.  That  was  in  Well- 
ington, New  Zealand,  I  was  bad,  and  got  lower  an' 
lower — couldn't  think  what  was  up.  I  could  hardly 
crawl  about.  As  certain  as  I'm  here,  she  was  poisoning 
me,  to  get  to  th'  other  chap — I'm  certain  of  it." 

"And  what  did  you  do?" 

"I  cleared  out — ^went  to  Sydney " 

"And  left  her?" 

"Yes,  I  thought  begod,  I'd  better  clear  out  if  I  wanted 
to  live." 

"And  you  were  all  right  in  Sydney?" 

"Better  in  no  time — I  know  she  was  putting  poison  in 
my  coffee." 

"Hml" 

There  was  a  glum  silence.  The  driver  stared  at  the 
road  ahead,  fixedly,  managing  the  car  as  if  it  were  a  live 
thing.  The  nephew  felt  that  his  uncle  was  afraid,  quite 
stupefied  with  fear,  fear  of  life,  of  death,  of  himself. 

"You're  in  rooms,  then?"  asked  the  nephew. 

"No,  I'm  in  a  house  of  my  own,"  said  the  uncle  defi- 
antly, "wi'  th'  best  little  woman  in  th'  Midlands.  She's 
a  marvel. — Why  don't  you  come  an'  see  us?" 

"I  will.    Who  is  she?" 

"Oh,  she's  a  good  girl — a  beautiful  little  thing.  I  was 
clean  gone  on  her  first  time  I  saw  her.    An'  she  was  on 


2o8  THE  PRIMROSE  PATH 

me.  Her  mother  lives  with  us — respectable  girl,  none  o^ 
your  .  .  . 

"And  how  old  is  she?'' 

" — How  old  is  she? — she's  twenty-one." 

"Poor  thing." 

"She's  right  enough," 

"You'd  marry  her — getting  a  divorce ?" 

"I  shall  marry  her." 

There  was  a  little  antagonism  between  the  two  men. 

"Where's  Aunt  Maud?"  asked  the  younger. 

"She's  at  the  Railway  Arms — we  passed  it,  just  against 
Rollin's  Mill  Crossing.  .  .  .  They  sent  me  a  note  this 
morning  to  go  an'  see  her  when  I  can  spare  time.  She's 
got  consumption." 

"Good  Lordl     Are  you  going?" 

"Yes " 

But  again  Berry  felt  that  his  uncle  wa,s  afraid. 

The  young  man  got  through  his  commission  in  the 
village,  had  a  drink  with  his  uncle  at  the  inn,  and  the 
two  were  returning  home.  The  elder  man's  subject  of 
conversation  was  Australia.  As  they  drew  near  the  town, 
they  grew  silent,  thinking  both  of  the  public-house.  At 
last  they  saw  the  gates  of  the  railway  crossing  were  closed 
before  them. 

"Shan't  you  call?"  asked  Berry,  jerking  his  head  in 
the  direction  of  the  inn,  which  stood  at  the  corner  be- 
tween two  roads,  its  sign  hanging  under  a  bare  horse- 
chestnut  tree  in  front. 

"I  might  as  well.  Come  in  an'  have  a  drink,"  said 
the  uncle. 

It  had  been  raining  all  the  morning,  so  shallow  pools 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH  209 

of  water  lay  about.  A  brewer's  wagon,  with  wet  barrels 
and  warm-smelling  horses,  stood  near  the  door  of  the 
inn.  Everywhere  seemed  silent,  but  for  the  rattle  of 
trains  at  the  crossing.  The  two  men  went  uneasily  up 
the  steps  and  into  the  bar.  The  place  was  paddled  with 
wet  feet,  empty.  As  the  bar-man  was  heard  approach- 
ing, the  uncle  asked,  his  usual  bluster  slightly  hushed 
by  fear: 

"What  yer  goin'  ta  have,  lad?     Same  as  last  time?'' 

A  man  entered,  evidently  the  proprietor.  He  was 
good-looking,  with  a  long,  heavy  face  and  quick,  dark 
eyes.  His  glance  at  Sutton  was  swift,  a  start,  a  recogni- 
tion, and  a  withdrawal,  into  heavy  neutrality. 

"How  are  yer,  Dan?"  he  said,  scarcely  troubling  to 
speak. 

"Are  yer,  George?"  replied  Sutton,  hanging  back. 
"My  nephew,  Dan  Berry. — Give  us  Red  Seal,  George." 

The  publican  nodded  to  the  younger  man,  and  set  the 
glasses  on  the  bar.  He  pushed  forward  the  two  glasses, 
then  leaned  back  in  the  dark  corner  behind  the  door,  his 
arms  folded,  evidently  preferring  to  get  back  from  the 
watchful  eyes  of  the  nephew. 

"— 's  luck,"  said  Sutton. 

The  publican  nodded  in  acknowledgment.  Sutton  and 
his  nephew  drank. 

"Why  the  hell  don't  you  get  that  road  mended  in  Cin- 
der Hill — ,"  said  Sutton  fiercely,  pushing  back  his  driver's 
cap  and  showing  his  short-cut,  bristling  hair. 

"They  can't  find  it  in  their  hearts  to  pull  it  up,"  re- 
plied the  publican,  laconically. 

"Find  in  their  hearts!     They  want  settin'  in  barrows 


2IO  X     THE  PRIMROSE  PATH 

an'  runnin*  up  an'  down  it  till  they  cried  for  mercy." 

Sutton  put  down  his  glass  The  publican  renewed  it 
with  a  sure  hand,  at  ease  in  whatsoever  he  did.  Then 
he  leaned  back  against  the  bar.  He  wore  no  coat.  He 
stood  with  arms  folded,  his  chin  on  his  chest,  his  long 
moustache  hanging.  His  back  was  round  and  slack,  so 
that  the  lower  part  of  his  abdomen  stuck  forward,  though 
he  was  not  stout.  His  cheek  was  healthy,  brown-red,  and 
he  was  muscular.  Yet  there  was  about  him  this  physical 
slackness,  a  reluctance  in  his  slow,  sure  movements.  His 
eyes  were  keen  under  his  dark  brows,  but  reluctant  also, 
as  if  he  were  gloomily  apathetic. 

There  was  a  halt.  The  publican  evidently  would  say 
nothing.  Berry  looked  at  the  mahogany  bar-counter, 
slopped  with  beer,  at  the  whiskey-bottles  on  the  shelves. 
Sutton,  his  cap  pushed  back,  showing  a  white  brow  above 
a  weather-reddened  face,  rubbed  his  cropped  hair  un- 
easily. 

The  publican  glanced  round  suddenly.  It  seemed  that 
only  his  dark  eyes  moved. 

"Gk)ing  up?"  he  asked. 

And  something,  perhaps  his  eyes,  indicated  the  unseen 
bedchamber. 

"Ay — that's  what  I  came  for,"  replied  Sutton,  shifting 
nervously  from  one  foot  to  the  other.  "She's  been  asking 
for  me?" 

"This  morning,"  replied  the  publican,  neutral. 

Then  he  put  up  a  flap  of  the  bar,  and  turned  away 
through  the  dark  doorway  behind.  Sutton,  pulling  off  his 
cap,  showing  a  round,  short-cropped  head  which  now 
was  ducked  forward,  followed  after  him,  the  buttons 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH  211, 

holding  the  strap  of  his  great-coat  behind  glittering  for  a 
moment. 

They  climbed  the  dark  stairs,  the  husband  placing  his 
feet  carefully,  because  of  his  big  boots.  Then  he  fol- 
lowed down  the  passage,  trying  vaguely  to  keep  a  grip 
on  his  bowels,  which  seemed  to  be  melting  away,  and 
definitely  wishing  for  a  neat  brandy.  The  publican 
opened  a  door.  Sutton,  big  and  burly  in  his  great-coat, 
went  past  him. 

The  bedroom  seemed  light  and  warm  after  the  passage. 
There  was  a  red  eider-down  on  the  bed.  Then,  making 
an  effort,  Sutton  turned  his  eyes  to  see  the  sick  woman. 
He  met  her  eyes  direct,  dark,  dilated.  It  was  such  a 
shock  he  almost  started  away.  For  a  second  he  remained 
in  torture,  as  if  some  invisible  flame  were  playing  on  him 
to  reduce  his  bones  and  fuse  him  down.  Then  he  saw 
the  sharp  white  edge  of  her  jaw,  and  the  black  hair  be- 
side the  hollow  cheek.  With  a  start  he  went  towards  the 
bed. 

"Hello,  Maud! "  he  said.    "Why,  what  ye  been  doin'?" 

The  publican  stood  at  the  window  with  his  back  to  the 
bed.  The  husband,  like  one  condemned  but  on  the  point 
of  starting  away,  stood  by  the  bedside  staring  in  horror 
at  his  wife,  whose  dilated  grey  eyes,  nearly  all  black  now, 
watched  him  wearily,  as  if  she  were  looking  at  something 
a  long  way  off. 

Going  exceedingly  pale,  he  jerked  up  his  head  and 
stared  at  the  wall  over  the  pillows.  There  was  a  little 
coloured  picture  of  a  bird  perched  on  a  bell,  and  a  nest 
among  ivy  leaves  beneath.  It  appealed  to  him,  made 
him  wonder,  roused  a  feeling  of  childish  magic  in  him. 


212  THE  PRIMROSE  PATH 

They  were  wonderfully  fresh,  green  ivy  leaves,  and  no- 
body had  seen  the  nest  among  them,  save  him. 

Then  suddenly  he  looked  down  again  at  the  face  on 
the  bed,  to  try  and  recognise  it.  He  knew  the  white  brow 
and  the  beautiful  clear  eyebrows.  That  was  his  wife, 
with  whom  he  had  passed  his  youth,  flesh  of  his  flesh, 
his,  himself.  Then  those  tired  eyes,  which  met  his  again 
from  a  long  way  off,  disturbed  him  until  he  did  not  know 
where  he  was.  Only  the  sunken  cheeks,  and  the  mouth 
that  seemed  to  protrude  now  were  foreign  to  him,  and 
filled  him  with  horror.  It  seemed  he  lost  his  identity. 
He  was  the  young  husband  of  the  woman  with  the  clear 
brows;  he  was  the  married  man  fighting  with  her  whose 
eyes  watched  him,  a  little  indifferently,  from  a  long  way 
off;  and  he  was  a  child  in  horror  of  that  protruding 
mouth. 

There  came  a  crackling  sound  of  her  voice.  He  knew 
she  had  consumption  of  the  throat,  and  braced  himself 
hard  to  bear  the  noise. 

"What  was  it,  Maud?"  he  asked  in  panic. 

Then  the  broken,  crackling  voice  came  again.  He  was 
too  terrified  of  the  sound  of  it  to  hear  what  was  said. 
There  was  a  pause. 

"You'll  take  Winnie?"  the  publican's  voice  interpreted 
from  the  window. 

"Don't  you  bother,  Maud,  I'll  take  her,"  he  said,  stu- 
pefying his  mind  so  as  not  to  understand. 

He  looked  curiously  round  the  room.  It  was  not  a 
bad  bedroom,  light  and  warm.  There  were  many  medi- 
cine bottles  aggregated  in  a  corner  of  the  washstand — 
and  a  bottle  of  Three  Star  brandy,  half  full.    And  there 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH  213 

were  also  photographs  of  strange  people  on  the  chest  of 
drawers.    It  was  not  a  bad  room. 

Again  he  started  as  if  he  were  shot.  She  was  speak- 
ing.   He  bent  down,  but  did  not  look  at  her. 

"Be  good  to  her,"  she  whispered. 

When  he  realised  her  meaning,  that  he  should  be  good 
to  their  child  when  the  mother  was  gone,  a  blade  went 
through  his  flesh. 

"1^11  be  good  to  her,  Maud,  don't  you  bother,"  he  said, 
beginning  to  feel  shaky. 

He  looked  again  at  the  picture  of  the  bird.  It  perched 
cheerfully  under  a  blue  sky,  with  robust,  jolly  ivy  leaves 
near.  He  was  gathering  his  courage  to  depart.  He 
looked  down,  but  struggled  hard  not  to  take  in  the  sight 
of  his  wife's  face. 

"I  s'll  come  again,  Maud,"  he  said.  "I  hope  you'll  go 
on  all  right.    Is  there  anything  as  you  want?" 

There  was  an  almost  imperceptible  shake  of  the  head 
from  the  sick  woman,  making  his  heart  melt  swiftly 
again.  Then,  dragging  his  limbs,  he  got  out  of  the  room 
and  down  the  stairs. 

The  landlord  came  after  him. 

"I'll  let  you  know  if  anything  happens,"  the  publican 
said,  still  laconic,  but  with  his  eyes  dark  and  swift. 

"Ay,  a'  right,"  said  Sutton  blindly.  He  looked  round 
for  his  cap,  which  he  had  all  the  time  in  his  hand.  Then 
he  got  out  of  doors. 

In  a  moment  the  uncle  and  nephew  were  in  the  car 
jolting  on  the  level  crossing.  The  elder  man  seemed  as 
if  something  tight  in  his  brain  made  him  open  his  eyes 
wide,  and  stare.    He  held  the  steering  wheel  firmly.    He 


214  THE  PRIMROSE  PATH 

knew  he  could  steer  accurately,  to  a  hair's  breadth. 
Glaring  fixedly  ahead,  he  let  the  car  go,  till  it  bounded 
over  the  uneven  road.  There  were  three  coal-carts  in 
a  string.  In  an  instant  the  car  grazed  past  them,  almost 
biting  the  kerb  on  the  other  side.  Sutton  aimed  his  car 
like  a  projectile,  staring  ahead.  He  did  not  want  to 
know,  to  think,  to  realise,  he  wanted  to  be  only  the 
driver  of  that  quick  taxi. 

The  town  drew  near,  suddenly.  There  were  allotment- 
gardens,  with  dark-purple  twiggy  fruit-trees  and  wet 
alleys  between  the  hedges.  Then  suddenly  the  streets 
of  dwelling-houses  whirled  close,  and  the  car  was  climb- 
ing the  hill,  with  an  angry  whirr, — up — up — till  they 
rode  out  on  to  the  crest  and  could  see  the  tram-cars,  dark- 
red  and  yellow,  threading  their  way  round  the  corner 
below,  and  all  the  traffic  roaring  between  the  shops. 

"Got  anywhere  to  go?"  asked  Sutton  of  his  nephew. 

"I  was  going  to  see  one  or  two  people." 

"Come  an*  have  a  bit  o'  dinner  with  us,"  said  the 
other. 

Berry  knew  that  his  uncle  wanted  to  be  distracted,  so 
that  he  should  not  think  nor  realise.  The  big  man  was 
running  hard  away  from  the  horror  of  realisation. 

"All  right,"  Berry  agreed. 

The  car  went  quickly  through  the  town.  It  ran  up  a 
long  street  nearly  into  the  country  again.  Then  it  pulled 
up  at  a  house  that  stood  alone,  below  the  road. 

"I  s'll  be  back  in  ten  minutes,"  said  the  uncle. 

The  car  went  on  to  the  garage.  Berry  stood  curiously 
at  the  top  of  the  stone  stairs  that  led  from  the  highroad 
down  to  the  level  of  the  house,  an  old  stone  place.    The 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH  215 

garden  was  dilapidated.  Broken  fruit-trees  leaned  at  a 
sharp  angle  down  the  steep  bank.  Right  across  the  dim 
grey  atmosphere,  in  a  kind  of  valley  on  the  edge  of  the 
town,  new  suburb-patches  showed  pinkish  on  the  dark 
earth.    It  was  a  kind  of  unresolved  borderland. 

Berry  went  down  the  steps.  Through  the  broken  black 
fence  of  the  orchard,  long  grass  showed  yellow.  The 
place  seemed  deserted.  He  knocked,  then  knocked  again. 
An  elderly  woman  appeared-  She  looked  like  a  house- 
keeper. At  first  she  said  suspiciously  that  Mr.  Sutton 
was  not  in. 

"My  uncle  just  put  me  down.  He'll  be  in  in  ten  min- 
utes," replied  the  visitor. 

"Oh,  are  you  the  Mr.  Berry  who  is  related  to  him?" 
exclaimed  the  elderly  woman.    "Come  in — come  in." 

She  was  at  once  kindly  and  a  little  bit  servile.  The 
young  man  entered.  It  was  an  old  house,  rather  dark, 
and  sparsely  furnished.  The  elderly  woman  sat  nerv- 
ously on  the  edge  of  one  of  the  chairs  in  a  drawing-room 
that  looked  as  if  it  were  furnished  from  dismal  relics  of 
dismal  homes,  and  there  was  a  little  straggling  attempt  at 
conversation.  Mrs.  Greenwell  was  evidently  a  working 
class  woman  unused  to  service  or  to  any  formality. 

Presently  she  gathered  up  courage  to  invite  her  visitor 
into  the  dining-room.  There  from  the  table  under  the 
window  rose  a  tall,  slim  girl  with  a  cat  in  her  arms.  She 
was  evidently  a  little  more  lady-like  than  was  habitual 
to  her,  but  she  had  a  gentle,  delicate,  small  nature.  Her 
brown  hair  almost  covered  her  ears,  her  dark  lashes  came 
down  in  shy  awkwardness  over  her  beautiful  blue  eyes. 
She  shook  hands  in  a  frank  way,  yet  she  was  shrinking. 


2i6  THE  PRIMROSE  PATH 

Evidently  she  was  not  sure  how  her  position  would 
affect  her  visitor.  And  yet  she  was  assured  in  herself, 
shrinking  and  timid  as  she  was. 

"She  must  be  a  good  deal  in  love  with  him,"  thought 
Berry. 

Both  women  glanced  shamefacedly  at  the  roughly  laid 
table.  Evidently  they  ate  in  a  rather  rough  and  ready 
fashion. 

Elaine — she  had  this  poetic  name — fingered  her  cat 
timidly,  not  knowing  what  to  say  or  to  do,  unable  even 
to  ask  her  visitor  to  sit  down.  He  noticed  how  her  skirt 
hung  almost  flat  on  her  hips.  She  was  young,  scarce  de- 
veloped, a  long,  slender  thing.  Her  colouring  was  warm 
and  exquisite. 

The  elder  woman  bustled  out  to  the  kitchen.  Berry 
fondled  the  terrier  dogs  that  had  come  curiously  to  his 
heels,  and  glanced  out  of  the  window  at  the  wet,  deserted 
orchard. 

This  room,  too,  was  not  well  furnished,  and  rather  dark. 
But  there  was  a  big  red  fire. 

"He  always  has  fox  terriers,"  he  said. 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  showing  her  teeth  in  a  smile. 

"Do  you  like  them  too?" 

"Yes" — she  glanced  down  at  the  dogs.  "I  like  Tam 
better  than  Sally " 

Her  speech  always  tailed  off  into  an  awkward  silence. 

"WeVe  been  to  see  Aunt  Maud,"  said  the  nephew. 

Her  eyes,  blue  and  scared  and  shrinking,  met  his. 

"Dan  had  a  letter,"  he  explained.    "She's  very  bad." 

"Isn't  it  horrible!"  she  exclaimed,  her  face  crumbling 
up  with  fear. 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH  217 

The  old  woman,  evidently  a  hard-used,  rather  down- 
trodden workman^s  wife,  came  in  with  two  soup-plates. 
She  glanced  anxiously  to  see  how  her  daughter  was  pro- 
gressing with  the  visitor. 

"Mother,  Dan's  been  to  see  Maud,"  said  Elaine,  in  a 
quiet  voice  full  of  fear  and  trouble. 

The  old  woman  looked  up  anxiously,  in  question. 

"I  think  she  wanted  him  to  take  the  child.  She's  very 
bad,  I  believe,"  explained  Berry. 

"Oh,  we  should  take  Winnie!"  cried  Elaine.  But  both 
women  seemed  uncertain,  wavering  in  their  position. 
Already  Berry  could  see  that  his  uncle  had  bullied  them, 
as  he  bullied  everybody.  But  they  were  used  to  unpleas- 
ant men,  and  seemed  to  keep  at  a  distance. 

"Will  you  have  some  soup?"  asked  the  mother,  humbly. 

She  evidently  did  the  work.  The  daughter  was  to  be 
a  lady,  more  or  less,  always  dressed  and  nice  for  when 
Sutton  came  in. 

They  heard  him  heavily  running  down  the  steps  out- 
side. The  dogs  got  up.  Elaine  seemed  to  forget  the 
visitor.  It  was  as  if  she  came  into  life.  Yet  she  was 
nervous  and  afraid.  The  mother  stood  as  if  ready  to 
exculpate  herself. 

Sutton  burst  open  the  door.  Big,  blustering,  wet  in 
his  immense  grey  coat,  he  came  into  the  dining-room. 

"Hello  1"  he  said  to  his  nephew,  "making  yourself  at 
home?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  replied  Berry. 

"Hello,  Jack,"  he  said  to  the  girl.  "Got  owt  to  grizzle 
about?" 

"What  for?"  she  asked,  in  a  clear,  half-challenging 


2i8  THE  PRIMROSE  PATH 

voice,  that  had  that  peculiar  twang,  almost  petulant,  so 
female  and  so  attractive.    Yet  she  was  defiant  like  a  boy. 

"It's  a  wonder  if  you  haven't,"  growled  Sutton.  And, 
with  a  really  intimate  movement,  he  stooped  down  and 
fondled  his  dogs,  though  paying  no  attention  to  them. 
Then  he  stood  up,  and  remained  with  feet  apart  on  the 
hearthrug,  his  head  ducked  forward,  watching  the  girl. 
He  seemed  abstracted,  as  if  he  could  only  watch  her.  His 
great-coat  hung  open,  so  that  she  could  see  his  figure, 
simple  and  human  in  the  great  husk  of  cloth.  She  stood 
nervously  with  her  hands  behind  her,  glancing  at  him, 
unable  to  see  anything  else.  And  he  was  scarcely  con- 
scious but  of  her.  His  eyes  were  still  strained  and 
staring,  and  as  they  followed  the  girl,  when,  long-limbed 
and  languid,  she  moved  away,  it  was  as  if  he  saw  in  her 
something  impersonal,  the  female,  not  the  woman. 

"Had  your  dinner?"  he  asked. 

"We  were  just  going  to  have  it,"  she  replied,  with  the 
same  curious  little  vibration  in  her  voice,  like  the  twang 
of  a  string. 

The  mother  entered,  bringing  a  saucepan  from  which 
she  ladled  soup  into  three  plates. 

"Sit  down,  lad,"  said  Sutton.  "You  sit  down.  Jack, 
an'  give  me  mine  here." 

"Oh,  aren't  you  coming  to  table?"  she  complained. 

"No,  I  tell  you,"  he  snarled,  almost  pretending  to  be 
disagreeable.  But  she  was  slightly  afraid  even  of  the 
pretence,  which  pleased  and  relieved  him.  He  stood  on 
the  hearthrug  eating  his  soup  noisily. 

"Aren't  you  going  to  take  your  coat  off?"  ^e  said. 
"It's  filling  the  place  full  of  steam." 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH  219 

He  did  not  answer,  but,  with  his  head  bent  forward 
over  the  plate,  he  ate  his  soup  hastily,  to  get  it  done 
with.  When  he  put  down  his  empty  plate,  she  rose  and 
went  to  him. 

"Do  take  your  coat  off,  Dan,"  she  said,  and  she  took 
hold  of  the  breast  of  his  coat,  trying  to  push  it  back 
over  his  shoulder.  But  she  could  not.  Only  the  stare 
in  his  eyes  changed  to  a  glare  as  her  hand  moved  over 
his  shoulder.  He  looked  down  into  her  eyes.  She 
became  pale,  rather  frightened-looking,  and  she  turned 
her  face  away,  and  it  was  drawn  slightly  with  love  and 
fear  and  misery.  She  tried  again  to  put  off  his  coat, 
her  thin  wrists  pulling  at  it.  He  stood  solidly  planted, 
and  did  not  look  at  her,  but  stared  straight  in  front.  She 
was  playing  with  passion,  afraid  of  it,  and  really  wretched 
because  it  left  her,  the  person,  out  of  count.  Yet  she 
continued.  And  there  came  into  his  bearing,  into  his 
eyes,  the  curious  smile  of  passion,  pushing  away  even  the 
death-horror.  It  was  life  stronger  than  death  in  him. 
She  stood  close  to  his  breast.  Their  eyes  met,  and  she 
was  carried  away. 

"Take  your  coat  off,  Dan,"  she  said  coaxingly,  in  a 
low  tone  meant  for  no  one  but  him.  And  she  slid  her 
hands  on  his  shoulder,  and  he  yielded,  so  that  the  coat 
was  pushed  back.  She  had  flushed,  and  her  eyes  had 
grown  very  bright.  She  got  hold  of  the  cuff  of  his  coat. 
Gently,  he  eased  himself,  so  that  she  drew  it  off.  Then 
he  stood  in  a  thin  suit,  which  revealed  his  vigorous, 
almost  mature  form. 

"What  a  weight  I"  she  exclaimed,  in  a  peculiar  pene- 


220  THE  PRIMROSE  PATH 

trating  voice,  as  she  went  out  hugging  the  overcoat.  In  a 
moment  she  came  back. 

He  stood  still  in  the  same  position,  a  frown  over  his 
fiercely  staring  eyes.  The  pain,  the  fear,  the  horror 
in  his  breast  were  all  burning  away  in  the  new,  fiercest 
flame  of  passion. 

"Get  your  dinner,"  he  said  roughly  to  her. 

"I've  had  all  I  want,"  she  said.  "You  come  an'  have 
yours." 

He  looked  at  the  table  as  if  he  found  it  difficult  to  see 
things. 

"I  want  no  more,"  he  said. 

She  stood  close  to  his  chest.  She  wanted  to  touch  him 
and  to  comfort  him.  There  was  something  about  him 
now  that  fascinated  her.  Berry  felt  slightly  ashamed 
that  she  seemed  to  ignore  the  presence  of  others  in  the 
room. 

The  mother  came  in.  She  glanced  at  Sutton,  standing 
planted  on  the  hearthrug,  his  head  ducked,  the  heavy 
frown  hiding  his  eyes.  There  was  a  peculiar  braced 
intensity  about  him  that  made  the  elder  woman  afraid. 
Suddenly  he  jerked  his  head  round  to  his  nephew. 

"Get  on  wi'  your  dinner,  lad,"  he  said,  and  he  went 
to  the  door.  The  dogs,  which  had  continually  lain  down 
and  got  up  again,  uneasy,  now  rose  and  watched.  The 
girl  went  after  him,  saying,  clearly: 

"What  did  you  want,  Dan?" 

Her  slim,  quick  figure  was  gone,  the  door  was  closed 
behind  her. 

There  was  silence.    The  mother,  still  more  slave-like  in 


THE  PRIMROSE  PATH  221 

her  movement,  sat  down  in  a  low  chair.  Berry  drank 
some  beer. 

"That  girl  will  leave  him,"  he  said  to  himself.  "She'll 
hate  him  like  poison.  And  serve  him  right.  Then  she'll 
go  off  with  somebody  else." 

And  she  did. 


THE  HORSE  DEALER'S  DAUGHTER 


THE  HORSE  DEALER'S  DAUGHTER 

"Well,  Mabel,  and  what  are  you  going  to  do  with 
yourself?"  asked  Joe,  with  foolish  flippancy.  He  felt 
quite  safe  himself.  Without  listening  for  an  answer, 
he  turned  aside,  worked  a  grain  of  tobacco  to  the  tip  of 
his  tongue,  and  spat  it  out.  He  did  not  care  about  any- 
thing, since  he  felt  safe  himself. 

The  three  brothers  and  the  sister  sat  round  the  deso- 
late breakfast  table,  attempting  some  sort  of  desultory 
consultation.  The  morning's  post  had  given  the  final  tap 
to  the  family  fortunes,  and  all  was  over.  The  dreary 
dining-room  itself,  with  its  heavy  mahogany  furniture, 
looked  as  if  it  were  waiting  to  be  done  away  with. 

But  the  consultation  amounted  to  nothing.  There  was 
a  strange  air  of  ineffectuality  about  the  three  men,  as 
they  sprawled  at  table,  smoking  and  reflecting  vaguely 
on  their  own  condition.  The  girl  was  alone,  a  rather 
short,  sullen-looking  young  woman  of  twenty-seven.  She 
did  not  share  the  same  life  as  her  brothers.  She  would 
have  been  good-looking,  save  for  the  impassive  fixity 
of  her  face,  "bull-dog,"  as  her  brothers  called  it. 

There  was  a  confused  tramping  of  horses'  feet  outside. 
The  three  men  all  sprawled  round  in  their  chairs  to 
watch.  Beyond  the  dark  holly-bushes  that  separated 
the  strip  of  lawn  from  the  highroad,  they  could  see  a 
cavalcade  of  shire  horses  swinging  out  of  their  own 
yard,  being  taken  for  exercise.    This  was  the  last  time. 

225 


226      THE  HORSE  DEALER'S  DAUGHTER 

These  were  the  last  horses  that  would  go  through  their 
hands.  The  young  men  watched  with  critical,  callous 
look.  They  were  all  frightened  at  the  collapse  of  their 
lives,  and  the  sense  of  disaster  in  which  they  were  involved 
left  them  no  inner  freedom. 

Yet  they  were  three  fine,  well-set  fellows  enough.  Joe, 
the  eldest,  was  a  man  of  thirty-three,  broad  and  hand- 
some in  a  hot,  flushed  way.  His  face  was  red,  he  twisted 
his  black  moustache  over  a  thick  finger,  his  eyes  were 
shallow  and  restless.  He  had  a  sensual  way  of  imcovering 
his  teeth  when  he  laughed,  and  his  bearing  was  stupid. 
Now  he  watched  the  horses  with  a  glazed  look  of  help- 
lessness in  his  eyes,  a  certain  stupor  of  downfall. 

The  great  draught-horses  swung  past.  They  were  tied 
head  to  tail,  four  of  them,  and  they  heaved  along  to  where 
a  lane  branched  off  from  the  highroad,  planting  their 
great  hoofs  floutingly  in  the  fine  black  mud,  swinging 
their  great  rounded  haunches  sumptuously,  and  trotting 
a  few  sudden  steps  as  they  were  led  into  the  lane,  roimd 
the  corner.  Every  movement  showed  a  massive,  slum- 
brous strength,  and  a  stupidity  which  held  them  in  sub- 
jection. The  groom  at  the  head  looked  back,  jerking  the 
leading  rope.  And  the  cavalcade  moved  out  of  sight  up 
the  lane,  the  tail  of  the  last  horse,  bobbed  up  tight  and 
stiff,  held  out  taut  from  the  swinging  great  haunches  as 
they  rocked  behind  the  hedges  in  a  motionlike  sleep. 

Joe  watched  with  glazed  hopeless  eyes.  The  horses 
were  almost  like  his  own  body  to  him.  He  felt  he  was 
done  for  now.  Luckily  he  was  engaged  to  a  woman  as 
old  as  himself,  and  therefore  her  father,  who  was  steward 
of  a  neighbouring  estate,  would  provide  him  with  a  job. 


THE  HORSE  DEALER'S  DAUGHTER       227 

He  would  marry  and  go  into  harness.  His  life  was  over, 
he  would  be  a  subject  animal  now. 

He  turned  uneasily  aside,  the  retreating  steps  of  the 
horses  echoing  in  his  ears.  Then,  with  foolish  restless- 
ness, he  reached  for  the  scraps  of  bacon-rind  from  the 
plates,  and  making  a  faint  whistling  sound,  flung  them 
to  the  terrier  that  lay  against  the  fender.  He  watched 
the  dog  swallow  them,  and  waited  till  the  creature  looked 
into  his  eyes.  Then  a  faint  grin  came  on  his  face,  and 
in  a  high,  foolish  voice  he  said: 

"You  won't  get  much  more  bacon,  shall  you,  you 
little  b ?" 

The  dog  faintly  and  dismally  wagged  its  tail,  then 
lowered  its  haunches,  circled  round,  and  lay  down  again. 

There  was  another  helpless  silence  at  the  table.  Joe 
sprawled  uneasily  in  his  seat,  not  willing  to  go  till  the 
family  conclave  was  dissolved.  Fred  Henry,  the  second 
brother,  was  erect,  clean-limbed,  alert.  He  had  watched 
the  passing  of  the  horses  with  more  sang-froid.  If  he 
was  an  animal,  like  Joe,  he  was  an  animal  which  controls, 
not  one  which  is  controlled.  He  was  master  of  any  horse, 
and  he  carried  himself  with  a  well-tempered  air  of  mastery. 
But  he  was  not  master  of  the  situations  of  life.  He  pushed 
his  coarse  brown  moustache  upwards,  off  his  lip,  and 
glanced  irritably  at  his  sister,  who  sat  impassive  and 
inscrutable. 

"You'll  go  and  stop  with  Lucy  for  a  bit,  shan't  you?" 
he  asked.    The  girl  did  not  answer. 

"I  don't  see  what  else  you  can  do,"  persisted  Fred 
Henry. 

"Go  as  a  skivvy,"  Joe  interpolated  laconically. 


228      THE  HORSE  DEALER'S  DAUGHTER 

The  girl  did  not  move  a  muscle. 

"If  I  was  her,  I  should  go  in  for  training  for  a  nurse," 
said  Malcolm,  the  youngest  of  them  all.  He  was  the  baby 
of  the  family,  a  young  man  of  twenty-two,  with  a  fresh, 
jaunty  museau. 

But  Mabel  did  not  take  any  notice  of  him.  They  had 
talked  at  her  and  round  her  for  so  many  years,  that  she 
hardly  heard  them  at  all. 

The  marble  clock  on  the  mantel-piece  softly  chimed  the 
half-hour,  the  dog  rose  uneasily  from  the  hearthrug  and 
looked  at  the  party  at  the  breakfast  table.  But  still  they 
sat  on  in  ineffectual  conclave. 

"Oh,  all  right,"  said  Joe  suddenly,  a  propos  of  nothing. 
"I'll  get  a  move  on." 

He  pushed  back  his  chair,  straddled  his  knees  with  a 
downward  jerk,  to  get  them  free,  in  horsey  fashion,  and 
went  to  the  fire.  Still  he  did  not  go  out  of  the  room;  he 
was  curious  to  know  what  the  others  would  do  or  say. 
He  began  to  charge  his  pipe,  looking  down  at  the  dog  and 
saying,  in  a  high,  affected  voice: 

"Going  wi'  me?  Going  wi'  me  are  ter?  Tha'rt  goin' 
further  than  tha  counts  on  just  now,  dost  hear?" 

The  dog  faintly  wagged  its  tail,  the  man  stuck  out  his 
jaw  and  covered  his  pipe  with  his  hands,  and  puffed 
intently,  losing  himself  in  the  tobacco,  looking  down  all  the 
while  at  the  dog,  with  an  absent  brown  eye.  The  dog 
looked  up  at  him  in  mournful  distrust.  Joe  stood  with  his 
knees  stuck  out,  in  real  horsey  fashion. 

"Have  you  had  a  letter  from  Lucy?"  Fred  Henry  asked 
of  his  sister. 

"Last  week,"  came  the  neutral  reply. 


THE  HORSE  DEALER^S  DAUGHTER       229 

"And  what  does  she  say?" 

There  was  no  answer. 

"Does  she  ask  you  to  go  and  stop  there?"  persisted 
Fred  Henry. 

"She  says  I  can  if  I  like." 

"Well,  then,  you'd  better.  Tell  her  youll  come  on 
Monday." 

This  was  received  in  silence. 

"That's  what  you'll  do  then,  is  it?"  said  Fred  Henry, 
in  some  exasperation. 

But  she  made  no  answer.  There  was  a  silence  of  futility 
and  irritation  in  the  room.    Malcolm  grinned  fatuously. 

"You'll  have  to  make  up  your  mind  between  now  and 
next  Wednesday,"  said  Joe  loudly,  "or  else  find  yourself 
lodgings  on  the  kerbstone." 

The  face  of  the  young  woman  darkened,  but  she  sat 
on  immutable. 

"Here's  Jack  FergussonI "  exclaimed  Malcolm,  who  was 
looking  aimlessly  out  of  the  window. 

"Where?"  exclaimed  Joe,  loudly. 

"Just  gone  past," 

"Coming  in?" 

Malcolm  craned  his  neck  to  see  the  gate. 

"Yes,"  he  said. 

There  was  a  silence.  Mabel  sat  on  like  one  condemned, 
at  the  head  of  the  table.  Then  a  whistle  was  heard  from 
the  kitchen.  The  dog  got  up  and  barked  sharply.  Joe 
opened  the  door  and  shouted: 

"Come  on." 

After  a  moment,  a  young  man  entered.  He  was  muffled 
up  in  overcoat  and  a  purple  woollen  scarf,  and  his  tweed 


230      THE  HORSE  DEALER'S  DAUGHTER 

cap,  which  he  did  not  remove,  was  pulled  down  on  his 
head.  He  was  of  medium  height,  his  face  was  rather 
long  and  pale,  his  eyes  looked  tired. 

"Hello  Jack  I  Well,  Jack!"  exclaimed  Malcolm  and 
Joe.    Fred  Henry  merely  said  "Jack I" 

"What's  doing?"  asked  the  newcomer,  evidently  ad- 
dressing Fred  Henry. 

"Same.  We've  got  to  be  out  by  Wednesday. — Got  a 
cold?" 

"I  have — ^got  it  bad,  too." 

"Why  don't  you  stop  in?" 

"ikfe  stop  in?  When  I  can't  stand  on  my  legs,  perhaps 
I  shall  have  a  chance."  The  young  man  spoke  huskily. 
He  had  a  slight  Scotch  accent. 

"It's  a  knock-out,  isn't  it,"  said  Joe  boisterously,  "if 
a  doctor  goes  round  croaking  with  a  cold.  Looks  bad 
for  the  patients,  doesn't  it?" 

The  young  doctor  looked  at  him  slowly. 

"Anything  the  matter  with  yoUy  then?"  he  asked,  sar- 
castically. 

"Not  as  I  know  of.  Damn  your  eyes,  I  hope  not. 
Why?" 

"I  thought  you  were  very  concerned  about  the  patients, 
wondered  if  you  might  be  one  yourself." 

"Damn  it,  no,  I've  never  been  patient  to  no  flaming 
doctor,  and  hope  I  never  shall  be,"  returned  Joe. 

At  this  point  Mabel  rose  from  the  table,  and  they  all 
seemed  to  become  aware  of  her  existence.  She  began 
putting  the  dishes  together.  The  young  doctor  looked  at 
her,  but  did  not  address  her.    He  had  not  greeted  her. 


THE  HORSE  DEALER'S  DAUGHTER       231 

She  went  out  of  the  room  with  the  tray,  her  face  impas- 
dve  and  unchanged. 

"When  are  you  off  then,  all  of  you?"  asked  the  doctor. 

"I'm  catching  the  eleven-forty,"  replied  Malcolm.  "Are 
you  goin'  down  wi'  th'  trap,  Joe?" 

"Yes,  I've  told  you  I'm  going  down  wi'  th'  trap, 
haven't  I?" 

"We'd  better  be  getting  her  in  then. — So  long.  Jack,  if 
I  don't  see  you  before  I  go,"  said  Malcolm,  shaking  hands. 

He  went  out,  followed  by  Joe,  who  seemed  to  have  his 
tail  between  his  legs. 

"Well,  this  is  the  devil's  own,"  exclaimed  the  doctor, 
when  he  was  left  alone  with  Fred  Henry.  "Going  before 
Wednesday,  are  you?" 

"That's  the  orders,"  replied  the  other. 

"Where,  to  Northampton?" 

"That's  it." 

"The  devil ! "  exclaimed  Fergusson,  with  quiet  chagrin. 

And  there  was  silence  between  the  two. 

"All  settled  up,  are  you?"  asked  Fergusson. 

"About." 

There  was  another  pause. 

"Well,  I  shall  miss  yer,  Freddy  boy,"  said  the  young 
doctor. 

"And  I  shall  miss  thee,  Jack,"  returned  the  other. 

"Miss  you  like  hell,"  mused  the  doctor. 

Fred  Henry  turned  aside.  There  was  nothing  to  say. 
Mabel  came  in  again,  to  finish  clearing  the  table. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  then.  Miss  Pervin?"  asked 
Fergusson.    "Going  to  your  sister's,  are  you?" 

Mabel  looked  at  him  with  her  steady,  dangerous  eyes, 


232       THE  HORSE  DEALER'S  DAUGHTER 

that  always  made  him  uncomfortable,  imsettling  his 
superficial  ease. 

"No,"  she  said. 

"Well,  what  in  the  name  of  fortune  are  you  going  to 
do?  Say  what  you  mean  to  do,"  cried  Fred  Henry,  with 
futile  intensity. 

But  she  only  averted  her  head,  and  continued  her  work. 
She  folded  the  white  table-cloth,  and  put  on  the  chenille 
cloth. 

"The  sulkiest  bitch  that  ever  trod!"  muttered  her 
brother. 

But  she  finished  her  task  with  perfectly  impassive 
face,  the  young  doctor  watching  her  interestedly  all  the 
while.    Then  she  went  out. 

Fred  Henry  stared  after  her,  clenching  his  lips,  his 
blue  eyes  fixing  in  sharp  antagonism,  as  he  made  a 
grimace  of  sour  exasperation. 

"You  could  bray  her  into  bits,  and  that's  all  you'd 
get  out  of  her,"  he  said,  in  a  small,  narrowed  tone. 

The  doctor  smiled  faintly. 

"What's  she  going  to  do  then?"  he  asked. 

"Strike  me  if  /  know! "  returned  the  other. 

There  was  a  pause.    Then  the  doctor  stirred. 

"I'll  be  seeing  you  to-night,  shall  I?"  he  said  to  his 
friend. 

"Ay — ^Where's  it  to  be?  Are  we  going  over  to  Jess- 
dale?" 

"I  don't  know.  I've  got  such  a  cold  on  me.  I'll  come 
round  to  the  Moon  and  Stars,  anyway." 

"Let  Lizzie  and  May  miss  their  night  for  once,  eh?" 

"That's  it— if  I  feel  as  I  do  now." 


THE  HORSE  DEALER'S  DAUGHTER       233 

"All's  one " 

The  two  young  men  went  through  the  passage  and 
down  to  the  back  door  together.  The  house  was  large, 
but  it  was  servantless  now,  and  desolate.  At  the  back 
was  a  small  bricked  house-yard,  and  beyond  that  a  big 
square,  gravelled  fine  and  red,  and  having  stables  on 
two  sides.  Sloping,  dank,  winter-dark  fields  stretched 
away  on  the  open  sides. 

But  the  stables  were  empty.  Joseph  Pervin,  the  father 
of  the  family,  had  been  a  man  of  no  education,  who  had 
become  a  fairly  large  horse  dealer.  The  stables  had  been 
full  of  horses,  there  was  a  great  turmoil  and  come-and-go 
of  horses  and  of  dealers  and  grooms.  Then  the  kitchen 
was  full  of  servants.  But  of  late  things  had  declined. 
The  old  man  had  married  a  second  time,  to  retrieve  his 
fortunes.  Now  he  was  dead  and  everything  was  gone 
to  the  dogs,  there  was  nothing  but  debt  and  threatening. 

For  months,  Mabel  had  been  servantless  in  the  big 
house,  keeping  the  home  together  in  penury  for  her 
ineffectual  brothers.  She  had  kept  house  for  ten  years. 
But  previously,  it  was  with  unstinted  means.  Then, 
however  brutal  and  coarse  everything  was,  the  sense  of 
money  had  kept  her  proud,  confident.  The  men  might 
be  foul-mouthed,  the  women  in  the  kitchen  might  have 
bad  reputations,  her  brothers  might  have  illegitimate 
children.  But  so  long  as  there  was  money,  the  girl  felt 
herself  established,  and  brutally  proud,  reserved. 

No  company  came  to  the  house,  save  dealers  and  coarse 
men.  Mabel  had  no  associates  of  her  own  sex,  after 
her  sister  went  away.  But  she  did  not  mind.  She  went 
regularly  to  church,  she  attended  to  her  father.  And  she 
lived  in  the  memory  of  her  mother,  who  had  died  when 


234      THE  HORSE  DEALER'S  DAUGHTER 

she  was  fourteen,  and  whom  she  had  loved.  She  had 
loved  her  father,  too,  in  a  different  way,  depending  upon 
him,  and  feeling  secure  in  him,  until  at  the  age  of  fifty- 
four  he  married  again.  And  then  she  had  set  hard  against 
him.  Now  he  had  died  and  left  them  all  hopelessly  in 
debt. 

She  had  suffered  badly  during  the  period  of  poverty. 
Nothing,  however,  could  shake  the  curious  sullen,  animal 
pride  that  dominated  each  member  of  the  family.  Now, 
for  Mabel,  the  end  had  come.  Still  she  would  not  cast 
about  her.  She  would  follow  her  own  way  just  the 
same.  She  would  always  hold  the  keys  of  her  own 
situation.  Mindless  and  persistent,  she  endured  from 
day  to  day.  Why  should  she  think?  Why  should  she 
answer  anybody?  It  was  enough  that  this  was  the  end, 
and  there  was  no  way  out.  She  need  not  pass  any  more 
darkly  along  the  main  street  of  the  small  town,  avoiding 
every  eye.  She  need  not  demean  herself  any  more,  going 
into  the  shops  and  buying  the  cheapest  food.  This  was 
at  an  end.  She  thought  of  nobody,  not  even  of  herself. 
Mindless  and  persistent,  she  seemed  in  a  sort  of  ecstasy 
to  be  coming  nearer  to  her  fulfilment,  her  own  glorifica- 
tion, approaching  her  dead  mother,  who  was  glorified. 

In  the  afternoon  she  took  a  little  bag,  with  shears  and 
sponge  and  a  small  scrubbing  brush,  and  went  out.  It 
was  a  grey,  wintry  day,  with  saddened,  dark-green  fields 
and  an  atmosphere  blackened  by  the  smoke  of  foundries 
not  far  off.  She  went  quickly,  darkly  along  the  causeway, 
heeding  nobody,  through  the  town  to  the  churchyard. 

There  she  always  felt  secure,  as  if  no  one  could  see  her, 
although  as  a  matter  of  fact  she  was  exposed  to  the  stare 


THE  HORSE  DEALER'S  DAUGHTER       235 

of  everyone  who  passed  along  under  the  churchyard 
wall.  Nevertheless,  once  under  the  shadow  of  the  great 
looming  church,  among  the  graves,  she  felt  immune  from 
the  world,  reserved  within  the  thick  churchyard  wall  as 
in  another  country. 

Carefully  she  clipped  the  grass  from  the  grave,  and 
arranged  the  pinky-white,  small  chrysanthemums  in  the 
tin  cross.  When  this  was  done,  she  took  an  empty  jar 
from  a  neighbouring  grave,  brought  water,  and  carefully, 
most  scrupulously  sponged  the  marble  headstone  and  the 
coping-stone. 

It  gave  her  sincere  satisfaction  to  do  this.  She  felt  in 
immediate  contact  with  the  world  of  her  mother.  She 
took  minute  pains,  went  through  the  park  in  a  state 
bordering  on  pure  happiness,  as  if  in  performing  this 
task  she  came  into  a  subtle,  intimate  connection  with  her 
mother.  For  the  life  she  followed  here  in  the  world 
was  far  less  real  than  the  world  of  death  she  inherited 
from  her  mother. 

The  doctor's  house  was  just  by  the  church.  Fergusson, 
being  a  mere  hired  assistant,  was  slave  to  the  country- 
side. As  he  hurried  now  to  attend  to  the  outpatients 
in  the  surgery,  glancing  across  the  graveyard  with  his 
quick  eye,  he  saw  the  girl  at  her  task  at  the  grave.  She 
seemed  so  intent  and  remote,  it  was  like  looking  into 
another  world.  Some  mystical  element  was  touched  in 
him.  He  slowed  down  as  he  walked,  watching  her  as  if 
spell-bound. 

She  lifted  her  eyes,  feeling  him  looking.  Their  eyes 
met.  And  each  looked  again  at  once,  each  feeling,  in 
some  way,  found  out  by  the  other.    He  lifted  his  cap  and 


236      THE  HORSE  DEALER'S  DAUGHTER 

passed  on  down  the  road.  There  remained  distinct  in 
his  consciousness,  like  a  vision,  the  memory  of  her  face, 
lifted  from  the  tombstone  in  the  churchyard,  and  looking 
at  him  with  slow,  large,  portentous  eyes.  It  was  por- 
tentous, her  face.  It  seemed  to  mesmerise  him.  There 
was  a  heavy  power  in  her  eyes  which  laid  hold  of  his 
whole  being,  as  if  he  had  drunk  some  powerful  drug. 
He  had  been  feeling  weak  and  done  before.  Now  the 
life  came  back  into  him,  he  felt  delivered  from  his  own 
fretted,  daily  self. 

He  finished  his  duties  at  the  surgery  as  quickly  as 
might  be,  hastily  filling  up  the  bottles  of  the  waiting 
people  with  cheap  drugs.  Then,  in  perpetual  haste,  he 
set  off  again  to  visit  several  cases  in  another  part  of  his 
round,  before  teatime.  At  all  times  he  preferred  to 
walk,  if  he  could,  but  particularly  when  he  was  not  well. 
He  fancied  the  motion  restored  him. 

The  afternoon  was  falling.  It  was  grey,  deadened,  and 
wintry,  with  a  slow,  moist,  heavy  coldness  sinking  in  and 
deadening  all  the  faculties.  But  why  should  he  think 
or  notice?  He  hastily  climbed  the  hill  and  turned  across 
the  dark-green  fields,  following  the  black  cinder-track. 
In  the  distance,  across  a  shallow  dip  in  the  country,  the 
small  town  was  clustered  like  smouldering  ash,  a  tower, 
a  spire,  a  heap  of  low,  raw,  extinct  houses.  And  on  the 
nearest  fringe  of  the  town,  sloping  into  the  dip,  was 
Oldmeadow,  the  Pervins'  house.  He  could  see  the  stables 
and  the  outbuildings  distinctly,  as  they  lay  towards  him 
on  the  slope.  Well,  he  would  not  go  there  many  more 
times!  Another  resource  would  be  lost  to  him,  another 
place  gone:  the  only  company  he  cared  for  in  the  alien, 


THE  HORSE  DEALER'S  DAUGHTER       237 

ugly  little  town  he  was  losing.  Nothing  but  work, 
drudgery,  constant  hastening  from  dwelling  to  dwelling 
among  the  colliers  and  the  iron-workers.  It  wore  him 
out,  but  at  the  same  time  he  had  a  craving  for  it.  It  was 
a  stimulant  to  him  to  be  in  the  homes  of  the  working 
people,  moving  as  it  were  through  the  innermost  body 
of  their  life.  His  nerves  were  excited  and  gratified. 
He  could  come  so  near,  into  the  very  lives  of  the  rough, 
inarticulate,  powerfully  emotional  men  and  women.  He 
grumbled,  he  said  he  hated  the  hellish  hole.  But  as  a 
matter  of  fact  it  excited  him,  the  contact  with  the  rough, 
strongly-feeling  people  was  a  stimulant  applied  direct  to 
his  nerves. 

Below  Oldmeadow,  in  the  green,  shallow,  soddened 
hollow  of  fields,  lay  a  square,  deep  pond.  Roving  across 
the  landscape,  the  doctor's  quick  eye  detected  a  figure  in 
black  passing  through  the  gate  of  the  field,  down 
towards  the  pond.  He  looked  again.  It  would  be  Mabel 
Pervin.    His  mind  suddenly  became  alive  and  attentive. 

Why  was  she  going  down  there?  He  pulled  up  on  the 
path  on  the  slope  above,  and  stood  staring.  He  could 
just  make  sure  of  the  small  black  figure  moving  in  the 
hollow  of  the  failing  day.  He  seemed  to  see  her  in  the 
midst  of  such  obscurity,  that  he  was  like  a  clairvoyant, 
seeing  rather  with  the  mind's  eye  than  with  ordinary 
sight.  Yet  he  could  see  her  positively  enough,  whilst  he 
kept  his  eye  attentive.  He  felt,  if  he  looked  away  from 
her,  in  the  thick,  ugly  falling  dusk,  he  would  lose  her 
altogether. 

He  followed  her  minutely  as  she  moved,  direct  and 
intent,  like  something  transmitted  rather  than  stirring 


238      THE  HORSE  DEALER'S  DAUGHTER 

in  voluntary  activity,  straight  down  the  field  towards 
the  pond.  There  she  stood  on  the  bank  for  a  moment. 
She  never  raised  her  head.  Then  she  waded  slowly  into 
the  water. 

He  stood  motionless  as  the  small  black  figure  walked 
slowly  and  deliberately  towards  the  centre  of  the  pond, 
very  slowly,  gradually  moving  deeper  into  the  motionless 
water,  and  still  moving  forward  as  the  water  got  up  to 
her  breast.  Then  he  could  see  her  no  more  in  the  dusk 
of  the  dead  afternoon. 

*There!"  he  exclaimed.    "Would  you  believe  it?" 

And  he  hastened  straight  down,  running  over  the  wet, 
soddened  fields,  pushing  through  the  hedges,  down  into 
the  depression  of  callous  wintry  obscurity.  It  took  him 
several  miputes  to  come  to  the  pond.  He  stood  on  the 
bank,  breathing  heavily.  He  could  see  nothing.  His 
eyes  seemed  to  penetrate  the  dead  water.  Yes,  perhaps 
that  was  the  dark  shadow  of  her  black  clothing  beneath 
the  surface  of  the  water. 

He  slowly  ventured  into  the  pond.  The  bottom  was 
deep,  soft  clay,  he  sank  in,  and  the  water  clasped  dead 
cold  round  his  legs.  As  he  stirred  he  -could  smell  the 
cold,  rotten  clay  that  fouled  up  into  the  water.  It  was 
objectionable  in  his  lungs.  Still,  repelled  and  yet  not  heed- 
ing, he  moved  deeper  into  the  pond.  The  cold  water  rose 
over  his  thighs,  over  his  loins,  upon  his  abdomen.  The 
lower  part  of  his  body  was  all  sunk  in  the  hideous  cold 
element.  And  the  bottom  was  so  deeply  soft  and  uncer- 
tain, he  was  afraid  of  pitching  with  his  mouth  underneath. 
He  could  not  swim,  and  was  afraid. 

He  crouched  a  little,  spreading  his  hands  under  the 


THE  HORSE  DEALER'S  DAUGHTER       239 

water  and  moving  them  round,  trying  to  feel  for  her. 
The  dead  cold  pond  swayed  upon  his  chest.  He  moved 
again,  a  little  deeper,  and  again,  with  his  hands  under- 
neath, he  felt  all  around  under  the  water.  And  he  touched 
her  clothing.  But  it  evaded  his  fingers.  He  made  a 
desperate  effort  to  grasp  it. 

And  so  doing  he  lost  his  balance  and  went  under, 
horribly,  suffocating  in  the  foul  earthy  water,  struggling 
madly  for  a  few  moments.  At  last,  after  what  seemed 
an  eternity,  he  got  his  footing,  rose  again  into  the  air 
and  looked  around.  He  gasped,  and  knew  he  was  in  the 
world.  Then  he  looked  at  the  water.  She  had  risen 
near  him.  He  grasped  her  clothing,  and  drawing  her 
nearer,  turned  to  take  his  way  to  land  again. 

He  went  very  slowly,  carefully,  absorbed  in  the  slow 
progress.  He  rose  higher,  climbing  out  of  the  pond. 
The  water  was  now  only  about  his  legs;  he  was  thankful, 
full  of  relief  to  be  out  of  the  clutches  of  the  pond.  He 
lifted  her  and  staggered  on  to  the  bank,  out  of  the  horror 
of  wet,  grey  clay. 

He  laid  her  down  on  the  bank.  She  was  quite  uncon- 
scious and  running  with  water.  He  made  the  water 
come  from  her  mouth,  he  worked  to  restore  her.  He 
did  not  have  to  work  very  long  before  he  could  feel  the 
breathing  begin  again  in  her ;  she  was  breathing  naturally. 
He  worked  a  little  longer.  He  could  feel  her  live  beneath 
his  hands;  she  was  coming  back.  He  wiped  her  face, 
wrapped  her  in  his  overcoat,  looked  round  into  the  dim, 
dark-grey  world,  then  lifted  her  and  staggered  down  the 
bank  and  across  the  fields. 

It  seemed  an  unthinkably  long  way,  and  his  burden  so 


240      THE  HORSE  DEALER'S  DAUGHTER 

heavy  he  felt  he  would  never  get  to  the  house.  But  at 
last  he  was  in  the  stable-yard,  and  then  in  the  house-yard. 
He  opened  the  door  and  went  into  the  house.  In  the 
kitchen  he  laid  her  down  on  the  hearthrug,  and  called. 
The  house  was  empty.  But  the  fire  was  burning  in  the 
grate. 

Then  again  he  kneeled  to  attend  to  her.  She  was 
breathing  regularly,  her  eyes  were  wide  open  and  as  if 
conscious,  but  there  seemed  something  missing  in  her 
look.  She  was  conscious  in  herself,  but  unconscious  of 
her  surroundings. 

He  ran  upstairs,  took  blankets  from  a  bed,  and  put 
them  before  the  fire  to  warm.  Then  he  removed  her 
saturated,  earthy-smelling  clothing,  rubbed  her  dry  with 
a  towel,  and  wrapped  her  naked  in  the  blankets.  Then 
he  went  into  the  dining-room,  to  look  for  spirits.  There 
was  a  little  whiskey.  He  drank  a  gulp  himself,  and  put 
some  into  her  mouth. 

The  effect  was  instantaneous.  She  looked  full  into  his 
face,  as  if  she  had  been  seeing  him  for  some  time,  and 
yet  had  only  just  become  conscious  of  him. 

"Dr.  Fergusson?"  she  said. 

"What?"  he  answered. 

He  was  divesting  himself  of  his  coat,  intending  to  find 
some  dry  clothing  upstairs.  He  could  not  bear  the  smell 
of  the  dead,  clayey  water,  and  he  was  mortally  afraid  for 
his  own  health. 

"What  did  I  do?"  she  asked. 

"Walked  into  the  pond,"  he  replied.  He  had  begun  to 
shudder  like  one  sick,  and  could  hardly  attend  to  her. 
Her  eyes  remained  full  on  him,  he  seemed  to  be  going 


THE  HORSE  DEALER'S  DAUGHTER       241 

dark  in  his  mind,  looking  back  at  her  helplessly.  The 
shuddering  became  quieter  in  him,  his  life  came  back 
in  him,  dark  and  unknowing,  but  strong  again. 

"Was  I  out  of  my  mind?"  she  asked,  while  her  eyes 
were  fixed  on  him  all  the  time. 

"Maybe,  for  the  moment,"  he  replied.  He  felt  quiet, 
because  his  strength  had  come  back.  The  strange  fretful 
strain  had  left  him. 

"Am  I  out  of  my  mind  now?"  she  asked. 

"Are  you?"  he  reflected  a  moment.  "No,"  he  answered 
truthfully,  "I  don't  see  that  you  are."  He  turned  his 
face  aside.  He  was  afraid,  now,  because  he  felt  dazed, 
and  felt  dimly  that  her  power  was  stronger  than  his,  in 
this  issue.  And  she  continued  to  look  at  him  fixedly  all 
the  time.  "Can  you  tell  me  where  I  shall  find  some  dry 
things  to  put  on?"  he  asked. 

"Did  you  dive  into  the  pond  for  me?"  she  asked. 

"No,"  he  answered.  "I  walked  in.  But  I  went  in  over- 
head as  well." 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment.  He  hesitated.  He 
very  much  wanted  to  go  upstairs  to  get  into  dry  clothing. 
But  there  was  another  desire  in  him.  And  she  seemed  to 
hold  him.  His  will  seemed  to  have  gone  to  sleep,  and 
left  him,  standing  there  slack  before  her.  But  he  felt 
warm  inside  himself.  He  did  not  shudder  at  all,  though 
his  clothes  were  sodden  on  him. 

"Why  did  you?"  she  asked. 

"Because  I  didn't  want  you  to  do  such  a  foolish  thing," 
he  said. 

"It  wasn't  foolish,"  she  said,  still  gazing  at  him  as 
she  lay  on  the  floor,  with  a  sofa  cushion  under  her  head. 


242       THE  HORSE  DEALER'S  DAUGHTER 

"It  was  the  right  thing  to  do.    /  knew  best,  then." 

"I'll  go  and  shift  these  wet  things,"  he  said.  But  still 
he  had  not  the  power  to  move  out  of  her  presence,  until 
she  sent  him.  It  was  as  if  she  had  the  life  of  his  body  in 
her  hands,  and  he  could  not  extricate  himself.  Or 
perhaps  he  did  not  want  to. 

Suddenly  she  sat  up.  Then  she  became  aware  of  her 
own  immediate  condition.  She  felt  the  blankets  about 
her,  she  knew  her  own  limbs.  For  a  moment  it  seemed 
as  if  her  reason  were  going.  She  looked  round,  with  wild 
eye,  as  if  seeking  something.  He  stood  still  with  fear. 
She  saw  her  clothing  lying  scattered. 

"Who  undressed  me?"  she  asked,  her  eyes  resting  full 
and  inevitable  on  his  face. 

"I  did,"  he  replied,  "to  bring  you  round." 

For  some  moments  she  sat  and  gazed  at  him  awfully, 
her  lips  parted. 

"Do  you  love  me  then?"  she  asked. 

He  only  stood  and  stared  at  her,  fascinated.  His  soul 
seemed  to  melt. 

She  shuffled  forward  on  her  knees,  and  put  her  arms 
round  him,  round  his  legs,  as  he  stood  there,  pressing 
her  breasts  against  his  knees  and  thighs,  clutching  him 
with  strange,  convulsive  certainty,  pressing  his  thighs 
against  her,  drawing  him  to  her  face,  her  throat,  as  she 
looked  up  at  him  with  flaring,  humble  eyes  of  trans- 
figuration, triumphant  in  first  possession. 

"You  love  me,"  she  murmured,  in  strange  transport, 
yearning  and  triumphant  and  confident.  "You  love  me. 
I  know  you  love  me,  I  know." 

And  she  was  passionately  kissing  his  knees,  through 


THE  HORSE  DEALER'S  DAUGHTER       243 

the  wet  clothing,  passionately  and  indiscriminately  kiss- 
ing his  knees,  his  legs,  as  if  unaware  of  everything. 

He  looked  down  at  the  tangled  wet  hair,  the  wild,  bare, 
animal  shoulders.  He  was  amazed,  bewildered,  and 
afraid.  He  had  never  thought  of  loving  her.  He  had 
never  wanted  to  love  her.  When  he  rescued  her  and 
restored  her,  he  was  a  doctor,  and  she  was  a  patient.  He 
had  had  no  single  personal  thought  of  her.  Nay,  this 
introduction  of  the  personal  element  was  very  distasteful 
to  him,  a  violation  of  his  professional  honour.  It  was 
horrible  to  have  her  there  embracing  his  knees.  It  was 
horrible.  He  revolted  from  it,  violently.  And  yet — and 
yet — ^he  had  not  the  power  to  break  away. 

She  looked  at  him  again,  with  the  same  supplication 
of  powerful  love,  and  that  same  transcendent,  frightening 
light  of  triumph.  In  view  of  the  delicate  flame  which 
seemed  to  come  from  her  face  like  a  light,  he  was  power- 
less. And  yet  he  had  never  intended  to  love  her.  He 
had  never  intended.  And  something  stubborn  in  him 
could  not  give  way. 

"You  love  me,"  she  repeated,  in  a  murmur  of  deep, 
rhapsodic  assurance.    "You  love  me." 

Her  hands  were  drawing  him,  drawing  him  down  to 
her.  He  was  afraid,  even  a  little  horrified.  For  he  had, 
really,  no  intention  of  loving  her.  Yet  her  hands  were 
drawing  him  towards  her.  He  put  out  his  hand  quickly 
to  steady  himself,  and  grasped  her  bare  shoulder.  A 
flame  seemed  to  burn  the  hand  that  grasped  her  soft 
shoulder.  He  had  no  intention  of  loving  her:  his  whole 
will  was  against  his  yielding.  It  was  horrible —  And 
yet  wonderful  was  the  touch  of  her  shoulder,  beautiful 


244      THE  HORSE  DEALER'S  DAUGHTER 

the  shining  of  her  face.  Was  she  perhaps  mad?  He  had 
a  horror  of  jaelding  to  her.  Yet  something  in  him  ached 
also. 

He  had  been  staring  away  at  the  door,  away  from  her. 
But  his  hand  remained  on  her  shoulder.  She  had  gone 
suddenly  very  still.  He  looked  down  at  her.  Her  eyes 
were  now  wide  with  fear,  with  doubt,  the  light  was  dying 
from  her  face,  a  shadow  of  terrible  greyness  was  return- 
ing. He  could  not  bear  the  touch  of  her  eyes'  question 
upon  him,  and  the  look  of  death  behind  the  question. 

With  an  inward  groan  he  gave  way,  and  let  his  heart 
yield  towards  her.  A  sudden  gentle  smile  came  on  his 
face.  And  her  eyes,  which  never  left  his  face,  slowly, 
slowly  filled  with  tears.  He  watched  the  strange  water 
rise  in  her  eyes,  like  some  slow  fountain  coming  up. 
And  his  heart  seemed  to  burn  and  melt  away  in  his 
breast. 

He  could  not  bear  to  look  at  her  any  more.  He  dropped 
on  his  knees  and  caught  her  head  with  his  arms  and 
pressed  her  face  against  his  throat.  She  was  very  still. 
His  heart,  which  seemed  to  have  broken,  was  burning 
with  a  kind  of  agony  in  his  breast.  And  he  felt  her 
slow,  hot  tears  wetting  his  throat.  But  he  could  not 
move. 

He  felt  the  hot  tears  wet  his  neck  and  the  hollows  of 
his  neck,  and  he  remained  motionless,  suspended  through 
one  of  man's  eternities.  Only  now  it  had  become  indis- 
pensable to  him  to  have  her  face  pressed  close  to  him; 
he  could  never  let  her  go  again.  He  could  never  let  her 
head  go  away  from  the  close  clutch  of  his  arm.  He 
wanted  to  remain  like  that  for  ever,  with  his  heart  hurting 


THE  HORSE  DEALER'S  DAUGHTER       245 

him  in  a  pain  that  was  also  life  to  him.    Without  knowing, 
he  was  looking  down  on  her  damp,  soft  brown  hair. 

Then,  as  it  were  suddenly,  he  smelt  the  horrid  stagnant 
smell  of  that  water.  And  at  the  same  moment  she  drew 
away  from  him  and  looked  at  him.  Her  eyes  were  wistful 
and  unfathomable.  He  was  afraid  of  them,  and  he  fell 
to  kissing  her,  not  knowing  what  he  was  doing.  He 
wanted  her  eyes  not  to  have  that  terrible,  wistful,  un- 
fathomable look. 

When  she  turned  her  face  to  him  again,  a  faint  delicate 
flush  was  glowing,  and  there  was  again  dawning  that 
terrible  shining  of  joy  in  her  eyes,  which  really  terrified 
him,  and  yet  which  he  now  wanted  to  see,  because  he 
feared  the  look  of  doubt  still  more. 

**You  love  me?"  she  said,  rather  faltering. 

"Yes."  The  word  cost  him  a  painful  effort.  Not 
because  it  wasn't  true.  But  because  it  was  too  newly 
true,  the  saying  seemed  to  tear  open  again  his  newly-torn 
heart.    And  he  hardly  wanted  it  to  be  true,  even  now. 

She  lifted  her  face  to  him,  and  he  bent  forward  and 
kissed  her  on  the  mouth,  gently,  with  the  one  kiss  that 
is  an  eternal  pledge.  And  as  he  kissed  her  his  heart 
strained  again  in  his  breast.  He  never  intended  to  love 
her.  But  now  it  was  over.  He  had  crossed  over  the  gulf 
to  her,  and  all  that  he  had  left  behind  had  shrivelled  and 
become  void. 

After  the  kiss,  her  eyes  again  slowly  filled  with  tears. 
She  sat  still,  away  from  him,  with  her  face  drooped  aside, 
and  her  hands  folded  in  her  lap.  The  tears  fell  very 
slowly.  There  was  complete  silence.  He  too  sat  there 
motionless  and  silent  on  the  hearthrug.    The  strange 


246      THE  HORSE  DEALER'S  DAUGHTER 

pain  of  his  heart  that  was  broken  seemed  to  consume 
him.  That  he  should  love  her?  That  this  was  love  I 
That  he  should  be  ripped  open  in  this  way! — Him,  a 
doctor  I — How  they  would  all  jeer  if  they  knew  I — ^It 
was  agony  to  him  to  think  they  might  know. 

In  the  curious  naked  pain  of  the  thought  he  looked 
again  to  her.  She  was  sitting  there  drooped  into  a  muse. 
He  saw  a  tear  fall,  and  his  heart  flared  hot.  He  saw  for 
the  first  time  that  one  of  her  shoulders  was  quite  uncov- 
ered, one  arm  bare,  he  could  see  one  of  her  small  breasts; 
dimly,  because  it  had  become  almost  dark  in  the  room. 

"Why  are  you  crying?"  he  asked,  in  an  altered  voice. 

She  looked  up  at  him,  and  behind  her  tears  the  con- 
sciousness of  her  situation  for  the  first  time  brought  a 
dark  look  of  shame  to  her  eyes. 

"I'm  not  crying,  really,"  she  said,  watching  him  half 
frightened. 

He  reached  his  hand,  and  softly  closed  it  on  her  bare 
arm. 

"I  love  you!  I  love  you!"  he  said  in  a  soft,  low, 
vibrating  voice,  unlike  himself. 

She  shrank,  and  dropped  her  head.  The  soft,  pene- 
trating grip  of  his  hand  on  her  arm  distressed  her.  She 
looked  up  at  him. 

"I  want  to  go,"  she  said.  "I  want  to  go  and  get  you 
some  dry  things." 

"Why?"  he  said.    "I'm  all  right." 

"But  I  want  to  go,"  she  said.  "And  I  want  you  to 
change  your  things." 

He  released  her  arm,  and  she  wrapped  herself  in  the 


THE  HORSE  DEALER'S  DAUGHTER       247 

blanket,  looking  at  him  rather  frightened.  And  still  she 
did  not  rise. 

"Kiss  me/'  she  said  wistfully. 

He  kissed  her,  but  briefly,  half  in  anger. 

Then,  after  a  second,  she  rose  nervously,  all  mixed 
up  in  the  blanket.  He  watched  her  in  her  confusion,  as 
she  tried  to  extricate  herself  and  wrap  herself  up  so  that 
she  could  walk.  He  watched  her  relentlessly,  as  she 
knew.  And  as  she  went,  the  blanket  trailing,  and  as  he 
saw  a  glimpse  of  her  feet  and  her  white  leg,  he  tried  to 
remember  her  as  she  was  when  he  had  wrapped  her  in 
the  blanket.  But  then  he  didn't  want  to  remember, 
because  she  had  been  nothing  to  him  then,  and  his  nature 
revolted  from  remembering  her  as  she  was  when  she  was 
nothing  to  him. 

A  tumbling,  muffled  noise  from  within  the  dark  house 
startled  him.  Then  he  heard  her  voice: — "There  are 
clothes."  He  rose  and  went  to  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  and 
gathered  up  the  garments  she  had  thrown  down.  Then 
he  came  back  to  the  fire,  to  rub  himself  down  and  dress. 
He  grinned  at  his  own  appearance,  when  he  had  finished. 

The  fire  was  sinking,  so  he  put  on  coal.  The  house 
was  now  quite  dark,  save  for  the  light  of  a  street-lamp 
that  shone  in  faintly  from  beyond  the  holly  trees.  He 
lit  the  gas  with  matches  he  found  on  the  mantel-piece. 
Then  he  emptied  the  pockets  of  his  own  clothes,  and 
threw  all  his  wet  things  in  a  heap  into  the  scullery. 
After  which  he  gathered  up  her  sodden  clothes,  gently, 
and  put  them  in  a  separate  heap  on  the  copper-top  in  the 
scullery. 


248      THE  HORSE  DEALER'S  DAUGHTER 

It  was  six  o'clock  on  the  clock.  His  own  watch  had 
stopped.  He  ought  to  go  back  to  the  surgery.  He  waited, 
and  still  she  did  not  come  down.  So  he  went  to  the  foot 
of  the  stairs  and  called: 

"I  shall  have  to  go." 

Almost  immediately  he  heard  her  coming  down.  She 
had  on  her  best  dress  of  black  voile,  and  her  hair  was 
tidy,  but  still  damp.  She  looked  at  him — and  in  spite 
of  herself,  smiled. 

"I  don't  look  like  you  in  those  clothes,"  she  said. 

"Do  I  look  a  sight?"  he  answered. 

They  were  shy  of  one  another. 

"I'll  make  you  some  tea,"  she  said. 

"No,  I  must  go." 

"Must  you?"  And  she  looked  at  him  again  with  the 
wide,  strained,  doubtful  eyes.  And  again,  from  the  pain 
of  his  breast,  he  knew  how  he  loved  her.  He  went  and 
bent  to  kiss  her,  gently,  passionately,  with  his  heart's 
painful  kiss. 

"And  my  hair  smells  so  horrible,"  she  murmured  im 
distraction.  "And  I'm  so  awful,  I'm  so  awful!  Oh,  no, 
I'm  too  awful."  And  she  broke  into  bitter,  heartbroken 
sobbing.    "You  can't  want  to  love  me,  I'm  horrible." 

"Don't  be  silly,  don't  be  silly,"  he  said,  trying  to 
comfort  her,  kissing  her,'  holding  her  in  his  arms.  "I 
want  you,  I  want  to  marry  you,  we're  going  to  be  married, 
quickly,  quickly — to-morrow  if  I  can." 

But  she  only  sobbed  terribly,  and  cried: 

"I  feel  awful.     I  feel  awful.    I  feel  I'm  horrible  to 
you." 


THE  HORSE  DEALER'S  DAUGHTER      249 

"No,  I  want  you,  I  want  you,"  was  all  he  answered, 
blindly,  with  that  terrible  intonation  which  frightened 
her  almost  more  than  her  horror  lest  he  should  not  want 
her. 


FANNY  AND  ANNIE 


FANNY  AND  ANNIE 

Flame-lurid  his  face  as  he  turned  among  the  throng  of 
flame-lit  and  dark  faces  upon  the  platform.  In  the  light 
of  the  furnace  she  caught  sight  of  his  drifting  countenance, 
like  a  piece  of  floating  fire.  And  the  nostalgia,  the  doom 
of  home-coming  went  through  her  veins  like  a  drug.  His 
eternal  face,  flame-lit  now  I  The  pulse  and  darkness  of 
red  fire  from  the  furnace  towers  in  the  sky,  lighting  the 
desultory,  industrial  crowd  on  the  wayside  station,  lit 
him  and  went  out. 

Of  course  he  did  not  see  her.  Flame-lit,  and  unseeing! 
Always  the  same,  with  his  meeting  eyebrows,  his  common 
cap,  and  his  red-and-black  scarf  knotted  round  his  throat. 
Not  even  a  collar  to  meet  her!  The  flames  had  sunk, 
there  was  shadow. 

She  opened  the  door  of  her  grimy,  branch-line  carriage, 
and  began  to  get  down  her  bags.  The  porter  was  nowhere, 
of  course,  but  there  was  Harry,  obscure,  on  the  outer  edge 
of  the  little  crowd,  missing  her,  of  course. 

"Herel  Harry  1"  she  called,  waving  her  umbrella  in  the 
twilight.    He  hurried  forward, 

^'Tha's  come,  has  ter?"  he  said,  in  a  sort  of  cheerful 
welcome.  She  got  down,  rather  flustered,  and  gave  hin^  a 
peck  of  a  kiss. 

"Two  suit-cases!"  she  said. 

Her  soul  groaned  within  her,  as  he  clambered  into  the 

253 


254  FANNY  AND  ANNIE 

carriage  after  her  bags.  Up  shot  the  fire  in  the  twilight 
sky,  from  the  great  furnace  behind  the  station.  She  felt 
the  red  flame  go  across  her  face.  She  had  come  back,  she 
had  come  back  for  good.  And  her  spirit  groaned  dismally. 
She  doubted  if  she  could  bear  it. 

There,  on  the  sordid  little  station  under  the  furnaces, 
she  stood,  tall  and  distinguished,  in  her  well-made  coat 
and  skirt  and  her  broad  grey  velour  hat.  She  held  her 
umbrella,  her  bead  chatelaine,  and  a  little  leather  case  in 
her  grey-gloved  hands,  while  Harry  staggered  out  of  the 
ugly  little  train  with  her  bags. 

"There's  a  trunk  at  the  back,"  she  said  in  her  bright 
voice.  But  she  was  not  feeling  bright.  The  twin  black 
cones  of  the  iron  foundry  blasted  their  sky-high  fires  into 
the  night.  The  whole  scene  was  lurid.  The  train  waited 
cheerfully.  It  would  wait  another  ten  minutes.  She  knew 
it.    It  was  all  so  deadly  familiar. 

Let  us  confess  it  at  once.  She  was  a  lady's  maid, 
thirty  years  old,  come  back  to  marry  her  first-love,  a 
foundry  worker:  after  having  kept  him  dangling,  off  and 
on,  for  a  dozen  years.  Why  had  she  come  back?  Did  she 
love  him?  No.  She  didn't  pretend  to.  She  had  loved  her 
brilliant  and  ambitious  cousin,  who  had  jilted  her,  and 
who  had  died.  She  had  had  other  affairs  which  had  come  to 
nothing.  So  here  she  was,  come  back  suddenly  to  marry 
her  first-love,  who  had  waited — or  remained  single — all 
these  years. 

"Won't  a  porter  carry  those?"  she  said,  as  Harry  strode 
with  his  workman's  stride  down  the  platform  towards  the 
guard's  van. 

"I  can  manage,"  he  said. 


FANNY  AND  ANNIE  255 

And  with  her  umbrella,  her  chatelaine,  and  her  little 
leather  case,  she  followed  him. 

The  trunk  was  there. 

"Well  get  Heather's  greengrocer's  cart  to  fetch  it  up," 
he  said. 

"Isn't  there  a  cab?"  said  Fanny,  knowing  dismally 
enough  that  there  wasn't. 

"I'll  just  put  it  aside  o'  the  penny-in-the-slot,  and 
Heather's  greengrocers  '11  fetch  it  about  half-past  eight," 
he  said. 

He  seized  the  box  by  its  two  handles  and  staggered  with 
it  across  the  level-crossing,  bumping  his  legs  against  it  as 
he  waddled.  Then  he  dropped  it  by  the  red  sweetmeats 
machine. 

"Will  it  be  safe  there?"  she  said. 

"Ay — safe  as  houses,"  he  answered.  He  returned  for 
the  two  bags.  Thus  laden,  they  started  to  plod  up  the 
hill,  under  the  great  long  black  building  of  the  foundry. 
She  walked  beside  him — ^workman  of  workmen  he  was, 
trudging  with  that  luggage.  The  red  lights  flared  over  the 
deepening  darkness.  From  the  foundry  came  the  horrible, 
slow  clang,  clang,  clang  of  iron,  a  great  noise,  with  an 
interval  just  long  enough  to  make  it  unendurable. 

Compare  this  with  the  arrival  at  Gloucester:  the  car- 
riage for  her  mistress,  the  dog-cart  for  herself  with  the 
luggage;  the  drive  out  past  the  river,  the  pleasant  trees 
of  the  carriage-approach;  and  herself  sitting  beside  Ar- 
thur, everybody  so  polite  to  her. 

She  had  come  home — for  good!  Her  heart  nearly 
stopped  beating  as  she  trudged  up  that  hideous  and  inter- 
minable hill,  beside  the  laden  figure.    What  a  come-down  I 


2s6  FANNY  AND  ANNIE 

What  a  come-down  I  She  could  not  take  it  with  her  usual 
bright  cheerfulness.  She  knew  it  all  too  well.  It  is  easy 
to  bear  up  against  the  unusual,  but  the  deadly  familiarity 
of  an  old  stale  past  I 

He  dumped  the  bags  down  under  a  lamp-post,  for  a  rest. 
There  they  stood,  the  two  of  ;them,  in  the  lamp-light. 
Passers-by  stared  at  her,  and  gave  good-night  to  Harry. 
Her  they  hardly  knew,  she  had  become  a  stranger. 

"They're  too  heavy  for  you,  let  me  carry  one,"  she  said. 

"They  begin  to  weigh  a  bit  by  the  time  youVe  gone  a 
mile,"  he  answered. 

"Let  me  carry  the  little  one,"  she  insisted. 

"Tha  can  ha'e  it  for  a  minute,  if  ter's  a  mind,"  he  said, 
handing  over  the  valise. 

And  thus  they  arrived  in  the  streets  of  shops  of  the 
little  ugly  town  on  top  of  the  hill.  How  everybody  stared 
at  her;  my  word,  how  they  stared  I  And  the  cinema  was 
just  going  in,  and  the  queues  were  tailing  down  the  road 
to  the  corner.  And  everybody  took  full  stock  of  her. 
"Night,  Harry  I"  shouted  the  fellows,  in  an  interested 
voice. 

However,  they  arrived  at  her  aunt's — ^a  little  sweet-shop 
in  a  side  street.  They  "pinged"  the  door-bell,  and  her  aunt 
came  running  forward  out  of  the  kitchen. 

"There  you  are,  child  I  Dying  for  a  cup  of  tea,  I'm  sure. 
How  are  you?" 

Fanny's  aunt  kissed  her,  and  it  was  all  Fanny  could  do 
to  refrain  from  bursting  into  tears,  she  felt  so  low.  Per- 
haps it  was  her  tea  she  wanted. 

"You've  had  a  drag  with  that  luggage,"  said  Fanny's 
aunt  to  Harry. 


FANNY  AND  ANNIE  257 

"Ay — I'm  not  sorry  to  put  it  down,"  he  said,  looking 
at  his  hand  which  was  crushed  and  cramped  by  the  bag 
handle. 

Then  he  departed  to  see  about  Heather's  green-grocery 
cart. 

When  Fanny  sat  at  tea,  her  aunt,  a  grey-haired,  fair- 
faced  little  woman,  looked  at  her  with  an  admiring  heart, 
feeling  bitterly  sore  for  her.  For  Fanny  was  beautiful: 
tall,  erect,  finely  coloured,  with  her  delicately  arched  nose, 
her  rich  brown  hair,  her  large  lustrous  grey  eyes.  A  pas- 
sionate woman — a  woman  to  be  afraid  of.  So  proud,  so 
inwardly  violent  I    She  came  of  a  violent  race. 

It  needed  a  woman  to  sympathise  with  her.  Men  had 
not  the  courage.  Poor  Fanny!  She  was  such  a  lady,  and 
so  straight  and  magnificent.  And  yet  everything  seemed 
to  do  her  down.  Every  time  she  seemed  to  be  doomed 
to  hiuniliation  and  disappointment,  this  handsome,  bril- 
liantly sensitive  woman,  with  her  nervous,  over-wrought 
laugh. 

"So  youVe  really  come  back,  child?"  said  her  aunt. 

"I  really  have,  Aunt,"  said  Fanny. 

"Poor  Harry!  I'm  not  sure,  you  know,  Fanny,  that 
you're  not  taking  a  bit  of  an  advantage  of  him." 

"Oh,  Aunt,  he's  waited  so  long,  he  may  as  well  have 
what  he's  waited  for."    Fanny  laughed  grimly. 

"Yes,  child,  he's  waited  so  long,  that  I'm  not  sure  it 
isn't  a  bit  hard  on  him.  You  know,  I  like  him,  Fanny — 
though  as  you  know  quite  well,  I  don't  think  he's  good 
ttiough  for  you.  And  I  think  he  thinks  so  himself,  poor 
feUow." 

"Don't  you  be  so  sure  of  that,  Aunt.   Harry  is  common, 


258  FANNY  AND  ANNIE 

but  he's  not  humble.  He  wouldn't  think  the  Queen  was 
any  too  good  for  him,  if  he'd  a  mind  to  her." 

"Well —  It's  as  well  if  he  has  a  prc^r  opinion  of 
himself." 

"It  depends  what  you  call  proper,"  said  Fanny.  "But 
he's  got  his  good  points " 

"Oh,  he's  a  nice  fellow,  and  I  like  him,  I  do  like  him. 
Only,  as  I  tell  you,  he's  not  good  enough  for  you." 

"I've  made  up  my  mind,  Aunt,"  said  Fanny,  grimly. 

"Yes,"  mused  the  aunt.  "They  say  all  things  come  to 
him  who  waits " 

"More  than  he's  bargained  for,  eh.  Aunt?"  laughed 
Fanny  rather  bitterly. 

The  poor  aunt,  this  bitterness  grieved  her  for  her 
niece. 

They  were  interrupted  by  the  ping  of  the  shop-bell,  and 
Harry's  call  of  "Right!"  But  as  he  did  not  come  in  at 
once,  Fanny,  feeling  solicitous  for  him  presumably  at  the 
moment,  rose  and  went  into  the  shop.  She  saw  a  cart 
outside,  and  went  to  the  door. 

And  the  moment  she  stood  in  the  doorway,  she  heard  a 
woman's  common  vituperative  voice  cr)dng  from  the  dark- 
ness of  the  opposite  side  of  the  road: 

"Tha'rt  theer,  are  ter?  I'll  shame  thee,  Mester.  111 
shame  thee,  see  if  I  dunna." 

Startled,  Fanny  stared  across  the  darkness,  and  saw  a 
woman  in  a  black  bonnet  go  under  one  of  the  lamps  up 
the  side  street. 

Harry  and  Bill  Heather  had  dragged  the  trunk  off  the 
little  dray,  and  she  retreated  before  them  as  they  came 
up  the  shop  step  with  it. 


FANNY  AND  ANNIE  259 

"Wheer  shalt  ha'e  it?"  asked  Harry. 

"Best  take  it  upstairs,"  said  Fanny. 

She  went  up  first  to  light  the  gas. 

When  Heather  had  gone,  and  Harry  was  sitting  down 
having  tea  and  pork  pie,  Fanny  asked: 

"Who  was  that  woman  shouting?" 

"Nay,  I  canna  tell  thee.  To  somebody,  I's'd  think," 
replied  Harry.    Fanny  looked  at  him,  but  asked  no  more. 

He  was  a  fair-haired  fellow  of  thirty-two,  with  a  fair 
moustache.  He  was  broad  in  his  speech,  and  looked  like 
a  foundry-hand,  which  he  was.  But  women  always  liked 
him.  There  was  something  of  a  mother's  lad  about  him — 
something  warm  and  playful  and  really  sensitive. 

He  had  his  attractions  even  for  Fanny.  What  she  re- 
belled against  so  bitterly  was  that  he  had  no  sort  of  ambi- 
tion. He  was  a  moulder,  but  of  very  commonplace  skill. 
He  was  thirty-two  years  old,  and  hadn't  saved  twenty 
pounds.  She  would  have  to  provide  the  money  for  the 
home.  He  didn't  care.  He  just  didn't  care.  He  had  no 
initiative  at  all.  He  had  no  vices — ^no  obvious  ones.  But 
he  was  just  indifferent,  spending  as  he  went,  and  not  car- 
ing. Yet  he  did  not  look  happy.  She  remembered  his 
face  in  the  fire-glow:  something  haunted,  abstracted  about 
it.  As  he  sat  there  eating  his  pork  pie,  bulging  his  cheek 
out,  she  felt  he  was  like  a  doom  to  her.  And  she  raged 
against  the  doom  of  him.  It  wasn't  that  he  was  gross. 
His  way  was  common,  almost  on  purpose.  But  he  him- 
self wasn't  really  common.  For  instance,  his  food  was  not 
particularly  important  to  him,  he  was  not  greedy.  He  had 
a  charm,  too,  particularly  for  women,  with  his  blondness 
and  his  sensitiveness  and  his  way  of  making  a  woman  feel 


26o  FANNY  AND  ANNIE 

that  she  was  a  higher  being.  But  Fanny  knew  him,  knew 
the  peculiar  obstinate  limitedness  of  him,  that  would 
nearly  send  her  mad. 

He  stayed  till  about  half-past  nine.  She  went  to  the 
door  with  him. 

"When  are  you  coming  up?"  he  said,  jerking  his  head 
in  the  direction  presumably,  of  his  own  home. 

"I'll  come  to-morrow  afternoon,"  she  said  brightly.  Be- 
tween Fanny  and  Mrs.  Goodall,  his  mother,  there  was 
naturally  no  love  lost. 

Again  she  gave  him  an  awkward  little  kiss,  and  said 
good-night. 

"You  can't  wonder,  you  know,  child,  if  he  doesn't  seem 
so  very  keen,"  said  her  aunt.    "It's  your  own  fault." 

"Oh,  Aunt,  I  couldn't  stand  him  when  he  was  keen.  I 
can  do  with  him  a  lot  better  as  he  is." 

The  two  women  sat  and  talked  far  into  the  night.  They 
understood  each  other.  The  aunt,  too,  had  married  as 
Fanny  was  marrying:  a  man  who  was  no  companion  to 
her,  a  violent  man,  brother  of  Fanny's  father.  He  was 
dead,  Fanny's  father  was  dead. 

Poor  Aunt  Lizzie,  she  cried  wofully  over  her  bright 
niece,  when  she  had  gone  to  bed. 

Fanny  paid  the  promised  visit  to  his  people  the  next 
afternoon.  Mrs.  Goodall  was  a  large  woman  with  smooth- 
parted  hair,  a  common,  obstinate  woman,  who  had  spoiled 
her  four  lads  and  her  one  vixen  of  a  married  daughter. 
She  was  one  of  those  old-fashioned  powerful  natures  that 
couldn't  do  with  looks  or  education  or  any  form  of  show- 
ing off.    She  fairly  hated  the  sound  of  correct  English. 


FANNY  AND  ANNIE  261 

She  thee'd  and  tha^d  her  prospective  daughter-in-law,  and 
said: 

"I'm  none  as  ormin'  as  I  look,  seest  ta." 

Fanny  did  not  think  her  prospective  mother-in-law 
looked  at  all  orming,  so  the  speech  was  unnecessary. 

"I  towd  him  mysen,"  said  Mrs.  Goodall,  "  'Er's  held 
back  all  this  long,  let  'er  stop  as  'er  is.  'E'd  none  ha'  had 
thee  for  my  tellin' — tha  hears.  No,  'e's  a  fool,  an'  I  know 
it.  I  says  to  him,  *Tha  looks  a  man,  doesn't  ter,  at  thy 
age,  goin'  an'  openin'  to  her  when  ter  hears  her  scrat' 
at  th'  gate,  after  she's  done  gallivantin'  round  wherever 
she'd  a  mind.  Tha  looks  rare  an'  soft.'  But  it's  no  use 
o'  any  talking:  he  answered  that  letter  o'  thine  and  made 
his  own  bad  bargain." 

But  in  spite  of  the  old  woman's  anger,  she  was  also 
flattered  at  Fanny's  coming  back  to  Harry.  For  Mrs. 
Goodall  was  impressed  by  Fanny — a  woman  of  her  own 
match.  And  more  than  this,  everybody  knew  that  Fanny's 
Aunt  Kate  had  left  her  two  hundred  pounds:  this  apart 
from  the  girl's  savings. 

So  there  was  high  tea  in  Princes  Street  when  Harry 
came  home  black  from  work,  and  a  rather  acrid  odour  of 
cordiality,  the  vixen  Jinny  darting  in  to  say  vulgar  things. 
Of  course  Jinny  lived  in  a  house  whose  garden  end  joined 
the  paternal  garden.  They  were  a  dan  who  stuck  to- 
gether, these  Goodalls. 

It  was  arranged  that  Fanny  should  come  to  tea  again 
on  the  Sunday,  and  the  wedding  was  discussed.  It  should 
take  place  in  a  fortnight's  time  at  Morley  Chapel.  Morley 
was  a  hamlet  on  the  edge  of  the  real  country,  and  in  its 


262  FANNY  AND  ANNIE 

little  Congregational  Chapel  Fanny  and  Harry  had  first 
met. 

What  a  creature  of  habit  he  was!  He  was  still  in  the 
choir  of  Morley  Chapel — ^not  very  regular.  He  belonged 
just  because  he  had  a  tenor  voice,  and  enjoyed  singing. 
Indeed  his  solos  were  only  spoilt  to  local  fame  because, 
when  he  sang  he  handled  his  aitches  so  hopelessly. 

"And  I  saw  'eaven  hopened 
And  be'old,  a  wite  'orse " 


This  was  one  of  Harry's  classics,  only  surpassed  by  the 
fine  outburst  of  his  heaving: 

"Hangels — hever  bright  an'  fair " 


It  was  a  pity,  but  it  was  inalterable.  He  had  a  good 
voice,  and  he  sang  with  a  certain  lacerating  fire,  but  his 
pronunciation  made  it  all  funny.  And  nothing  could  alter 
him. 

So  he  was  never  heard  save  at  cheap  concerts  and  in 
the  little,  poorer  chapels.   The  others  scoffed. 

Now  the  month  was  September,  and  Sunday  was  Har- 
vest Festival  at  Morley  Chapel,  and  Harry  was  singing 
solos.  So  that  Fanny  was  to  go  to  afternoon  service,  and 
come  home  to  a  grand  spread  of  Sunday  tea  with  him. 
Poor  Fanny  I  One  of  the  most  wonderful  afternoons  had 
been  a  Sunday  afternoon  service,  with  her  cousin  Luther 
at  her  side.  Harvest  Festival  at  Morley  Chapel.  Harry 
had  sung  solos  then — ten  years  ago.  She  remembered  his 
pale  blue  tie,  and  the  purple  asters  and  the  great  vegetable 


FANNY  AND  ANNIE  263 

marrows  in  which  he  was  framed,  and  her  cousin  Luther 
at  her  side,  young,  clever,  come  down  from  London,  where 
he  was  getting  on  well,  learning  his  Latin  and  his  French 
and  German  so  brilliantly. 

However,  once  again  it  was  Harvest  Festival  at  Morley 
Chapel,  and  once  again,  as  ten  years  before,  a  soft,  ex- 
quisite September  day,  with  the  last  roses  pink  in  the  cot- 
tage gardens,  the  last  dahlias  crimson,  the  last  sunflowers 
yellow.  And  again  the  little  old  chapel  was  a  bower,  with 
its  famous  sheaves  of  corn  and  corn-plaited  pillars,  its 
great  bimches  of  grapes,  dangling  like  tassels  from  the 
pulpit  corners,  its  marrows  and  potatoes  and  pears  and 
apples  and  damsons,  its  purple  asters  and  yellow  Japanese 
simflowers.  Just  as  before,  the  red  dahlias  round  the  pil- 
lars were  dropping,  weak-headed  among  the  oats.  The 
place  v/as  crowded  and  hot,  the  plates  of  tomatoes  seemed 
balanced  perilous  on  the  gallery  front,  the  Rev.  Enderby 
was  weirder  than  ever  to  look  at,  so  long  and  emaciated 
and  hairless. 

The  Rev.  Enderby,  probably  forewarned,  came  and 
shook  hands  with  her  and  welcomed  her,  in  his  broad 
northern,  melancholy  singsong  before  he  mounted  the 
pulpit.  Fanny  was  handsome  in  a  gauzy  dress  and  a 
beautiful  lace  hat.  Being  a  little  late,  she  sat  in  a  chair 
in  the  side-aisle  wedged  in,  right  in  the  front  of  the 
chapel.  Harry  was  in  the  gallery  above,  and  she  could 
only  see  him  from  the  eyes  upwards.  She  noticed  again 
how  his  eyebrows  met,  blond  and  not  very  marked,  over 
his  nose.  He  was  attractive  too:  physically  lovable,  very. 
If  only — if  only  her  pride  had  not  suffered  I  She  felt  he 
dragged  her  down. 


264  FANNY  AND  ANNIE 

"Come,  ye  thankful  people,  come, 
Raise  the  song  of  harvest-home. 
All  is  safely  gathered  in 
Ere  the  winter  storms  begin ' 


Even  the  hymn  was  a  falsehood,  as  the  season  had 
been  wet,  and  half  the  crops  were  still  out,  and  in  a  poor 
way. 

Poor  Fanny  I  She  sang  little,  and  looked  beautiful 
through  that  inappropriate  hymn.  Above  her  stood  Harry 
— mercifully  in  a  dark  suit  and  a  dark  tie,  looking  almost 
handsome.  And  his  lacerating,  pure  tenor  sounded  well, 
when  the  words  were  drowned  in  the  general  commotion. 
Brilliant  she  looked,  and  brilliant  she  felt,  for  she  was 
hot  and  angrily  miserable  and  inflamed  with  a  sort  of 
fatal  despair.  Because  there  was  about  him  a  physical 
attraction  which  she  really  hated,  but  which  she  could 
not  escape  from.  He  was  the  first  man  who  had  ever 
kissed  her.  And  his  kisses,  even  while  she  rebelled  from 
them,  had  lived  in  her  blood  and  sent  roots  down  into 
her  soul.  After  all  this  time  she  had  come  back  to  them. 
And  her  soul  groaned,  for  she  felt  dragged  down,  dragged 
down  to  earth,  as  a  bird  which  some  dog  has  got  down 
in  the  dust.  She  knew  her  life  would  be  unhappy.  She 
knew  that  what  she  was  doing  was  fatal.  Yet  it  was 
her  doom.    She  had  to  come  back  to  him. 

He  had  to  sing  two  solos  this  afternoon:  one  before 
the  "address"  from  the  pulpit  and  one  after.  Fanny 
looked  at  him,  and  wondered  he  was  not  too  shy  to  stand 
up  there  in  front  of  all  the  people.  But  no,  he  was  not 
shy.  He  had  even  a  kind  of  assurance  on  his  face  as  he 
looked  down  from  the  choir  gallery  at  her:  the  assurance 


FANNY  AND  ANNIE  265 

of  a  common  man  deliberately  entrenched  in  his 
commonness.  Oh,  such  a  rage  went  through  her  veins  as 
she  saw  the  air  of  triumph,  laconic,  indifferent  triumph 
which  sat  so  obstinately  and  recklessly  on  his  eyelids  as 
he  looked  down  at  her.  Ah,  she  despised  him!  But  there 
he  stood  up  in  that  choir  gallery  like  Balaam's  ass  in 
front  of  her,  and  she  could  not  get  beyond  him.  A  certain 
winsomeness  also  about  him.  A  certain  physical  winsome- 
ness,  and  as  if  his  flesh  were  new  and  lovely  to  touch. 
The  thorn  of  desire  rankled  bitterly  in  her  heart. 

He,  it  goes  without  saying,  sang  like  a  canary  this 
particular  afternoon,  with  a  certain  defiant  passion  which 
pleasantly  crisped  the  blood  of  the  congregation.  Fanny 
felt  the  crisp  flames  go  through  her  veins  as  she  listened. 
Even  the  curious  loud-mouthed  vernacular  had  a  certain 
fascination.  But  oh,  also,  it  was  so  repugnant.  He  would 
triumph  over  her,  obstinately  he  would  drag  her  right 
back  into  the  common  people:  a  doom,  a  vulgar  doom. 

The  second  performance  was  an  anthem,  in  which 
Harry  sang  the  solo  parts.  It  was  clumsy,  but  beautiful, 
with  lovely  words. 

"They  that  sow  in  tears  shall  reap  in  joy. 
He  that  goeth  forth  and  weepeth,  bearing  precious  seed 
Shall  doubtless  come  again  with  rejoicing,  bringing  his 
sheaves  with  him " 

"Shall  doubtless  come.  Shall  doubtless  come — "  softly 
intoned  the  altos — "Bringing  his  she-e-eaves  with  him," 
the  trebles  flourished  brightly,  and  then  again  began  the 
half -wistful  solo: 


'They  that  sow  in  tears  shall  reap  in  joy- 


266  FANNY  AND  ANNIE 

Yes,  it  was  effective  and  moving. 

But  at  the  moment  when  Harry^s  voice  sank  carelessly 
down  to  his  close,  and  the  choir,  standing  behind  him, 
were  opening  their  mouths  for  the  final  triumphant  out- 
burst, a  shouting  female  voice  rose  up  from  the  body  of 
the  congregation.  The  organ  gave  one  startled  trump, 
and  went  silent;  the  choir  stood  transfixed. 

"You  look  well  standing  there,  singing  in  God's  holy 
house,"  came  the  loud,  angry  female  shout.  Everybody 
turned  electrified.  A  stoutish,  red-faced  woman  in  a 
black  bonnet  was  standing  up  denouncing  the  soloist. 
Almost  fainting  with  shock,  the  congregation  realised 
it.  "You  look  well,  don't  you,  standing  there  singing 
solos  in  God's  holy  house,  you,  Goodall.  But  I  said  I'd 
shame  you.  You  look  well,  bringing  your  young  woman 
here  with  you,  don't  you?  I'll  let  her  know  who  she's 
dealing  with.  A  scamp  as  won't  take  the  consequences  of 
what  he's  done."  The  hard-faced,  frenzied  woman  turned 
in  the  direction  of  Fanny.  "That^s  what  Harry  Goodall 
is,  if  you  want  to  know." 

And  she  sat  down  again  in  her  seat.  Fanny,  startled 
like  all  the  rest,  had  turned  to  look.  She  had  gone  white, 
and  then  a  burning  red,  under  the  attack.  She  knew 
the  woman:  a  Mrs.  Nixon,  a  devil  of  a  woman,  who 
beat  her  pathetic,  drunken,  red-nosed  second  husband, 
Bob,  and  her  two  lanky  daughters,  grown-up  as  they 
were.  A  notorious  character.  Fanny  turned  round  again, 
and  sat  motionless  as  eternity  in  her  seat. 

There  was  a  minute  of  perfect  silence  and  suspense. 
The  audience  was  open-mouthed  and  dumb;  the  choir 
stood  like  Lot's  wife;  and  Harry,  with  his  music-sheet, 


FANNY  AND  ANNIE  267 

stood  there  uplifted,  looking  down  with  a  dumb  sort  of 
indifference  on  Mrs.  Nixon,  his  face  naive  and  faintly- 
mocking.  Mrs.  Nixon  sat  defiant  in  her  seat,  braving 
them  all. 

Then  a  rustle,  like  a  wood  when  the  wind  suddenly 
catches  the  leaves.  And  then  the  tall,  weird  minister  got 
to  his  feet,  and  in  his  strong,  bell-like,  beautiful  voice — 
the  only  beautiful  thing  about  him — he  said  Mdth  infinite 
mournful  pathos: 

"Let  us  unite  in  singing  the  last  hymn  on  the  hymn- 
sheet;  the  last  hymn  on  the  hymn-sheet,  number  eleven. 

*Fair  waved  the  golden  corn, 
In  Canaan's  pleasant  land.' " 

The  organ  tuned  up  promptly.  During  the  hymn  the 
offertory  was  taken.    And  after  the  hymn,  the  prayer. 

Mr.  Enderby  came  from  Northumberland.  Like 
Harry,  he  had  never  been  able  to  conquer  his  accent, 
which  was  very  broad.  He  was  a  little  simple,  one  of 
God's  fools,  perhaps,  an  odd  bachelor  soul,  emotional, 
ugly,  but  very  gentle. 

"And  if,  O  our  dear  Lord,  beloved  Jesus,  there  should 
fall  a  shadow  of  sin  upon  our  harvest,  we  leave  it  to  Thee 
to  judge,  for  Thou  art  judge.  We  lift  our  spirits  and  our 
sorrow,  Jesus,  to  Thee,  and  our  mouths  are  dumb.  O 
Lord,  keep  us  from  froward  speech,  restrain  us  from  fool- 
ish words  and  thoughts,  we  pray  Thee,  Lord  Jesus,  who 
knowest  all  and  judgest  all." 

Thus  the  minister  said  in  his  sad,  resonant  voice, 
washed  his  hands  before  the  Lord.  Fanny  bent  forward 
open-eyed  during  the  prayer.    She  could  see  the  roundish 


26S  FANNY  AND  ANNIE 

head  of  Harry,  also  bent  forward.  His  face  was  inscrut- 
able and  expressionless.  The  shock  left  her  bewildered. 
Anger  perhaps  was  her  dominating  emotion. 

The  audience  began  to  rustle  to  its  feet,  to  ooze  slowly 
and  excitedly  out  of  the  chapel,  looking  with  wildly- 
interested  eyes  at  Fanny,  at  Mrs.  Nixon,  and  at  Harry. 
Mrs.  Nixon,  shortish,  stood  defiant  in  her  pew,  facing  the 
aisle,  as  if  announcing  that,  without  rolling  her  sleeves  up, 
she  was  ready  for  anybody.  Fanny  sat  quite  still.  Luck- 
ily the  people  did  not  have  to  pass  her.  And  Harry,  with 
red  ears,  was  making  his  way  sheepishly  out  of  the  gallery. 
The  loud  noise  of  the  organ  covered  all  the  downstairs 
commotion  of  exit. 

The  minister  sat  silent  and  inscrutable  in  his  pulpit, 
rather  like  a  death*s-head,  while  the  congregation  filed  out. 
When  the  last  lingerers  had  unwillingly  departed,  craning 
their  necks  to  stare  at  the  still  seated  Fanny,  he  rose, 
stalked  in  his  hooked  fashion  down  the  little  country 
chapel,  and  fastened  the  door.  Then  he  returned  and  sat 
down  by  the  silent  young  woman. 

"This  is  most  unfortunate,  most  unfortunate!"  he 
moaned.  "I  am  so  sorry,  I  am  so  sorry,  indeed,  indeed, 
ah,  indeed  I "  he  sighed  himself  to  a  close. 

"It's  a  sudden  surprise,  that's  one  thing,"  said  Fanny 
brightly. 

"Yes — ^yes — indeed.  Yes,  a  surprise,  yes.  I  don't 
know  the  woman,  I  don't  know  her." 

"I  know  her,"  said  Fanny.    "She's  a  bad  one." 

"Well!  Well! "  said  the  minister.  "I  don't  know  her. 
I  don't  understand.    I  don't  understand  at  all.    But  it  is 


FANNY  AND  ANNIE  269 

to  be  regretted,  it  is  very  much  to  be  regretted.  I  am 
yery  sorry." 

Fanny  was  watching  the  vestry  door.  The  gallery  stairs 
communicated  with  the  vestry,  not  with  the  body  of  the 
chapel.  She  knew  the  choir  members  had  been  peeping 
for  information. 

At  last  Harry  came — rather  sheepishly — with  his  hat  in 
his  hand. 

"Well! "  said  Fanny,  rising  to  her  feet. 

"We've  had  a  bit  of  an  extra,"  said  Harry. 

"I  should  think  so,"  said  Fanny. 

"A  most  unfortimate  circumstance — a  most  unfortunate 
circumstance.  Do  you  understand  it,  Harry?  I  don't 
understand  it  at  all." 

"Ay,  I  understand  it.  The  daughter's  goin'  to  have  a 
childt,  an'  'er  lays  it  on  to  me." 

"And  has  she  no  occasion  to?"  asked  Fanny,  rather  cen- 
sorious. 

"It's  no  more  mine  than  it  is  some  other  chap's,"  said 
Harry,  looking  aside. 

There  was  a  moment  of  pause. 

"Which  girl  is  it?"  asked  Fanny. 

"Annie — the  young  one " 

There  followed  another  silence. 

"I  don't  think  I  know  them,  do  I?"  asked  the  minister^ 

"I  shouldn't  think  so.  Their  name's  Nixon — mother 
married  old  Bob  for  her  second  husband.  She's  a  tanger 
— 's  driven  the  gel  to  what  she  is.  They  live  in  Manners 
Road." 

"Why,  what's  amiss  with  the  girl?"  asked  Fanny 
sharply.    "She  was  all  right  when  I  knew  her." 


270  FANNY  AND  ANNIE 

"Ay — ^sbe's  all  right.  But  she's  always  in  an'  out  o'  th' 
pubs,  wi'  th'  fellows,"  said  Harry. 

"A  nice  thing!"  said  Fanny. 

Harry  glanced  towards  the  door.    He  wanted  to  get  out. 

"Most  distressing  indeed  1 "  The  minister  slowly  shook 
his  head. 

"What  about  to-night,  Mr.  Enderby?"  asked  Harry, 
in  rather  a  small  voice.     "Shall  you  want  me?" 

Mr.  Enderby  looked  up  painedly,  and  put  his  hand  to 
his  brow.  He  studied  Harry  for  some  time,  vacantly. 
There  was  the  faintest  sort  of  a  resemblance  between  the 
two  men. 

"Yes,"  he  said.  "Yes,  I  think.  I  think  we  must  take 
BO  notice,  and  cause  as  little  remark  as  possible." 

Fanny  hesitated.    Then  she  said  to  Harry: 

"But  will  you  come?" 

He  looked  at  her. 

"Ay,  I  s'U  come,"  he  said. 

Then  he  turned  to  Mr.  Enderby. 

**Well,  good-afternoon,  Mr.  Enderby,"  he  said. 

"Good-afternoon,  Harry,  good-afternoon,"  replied  the 
mournful  minister.  Fanny  followed  Harry  to  the  door, 
and  for  some  time  they  walked  in  silence  through  the  late 
afternoon. 

"And  it's  yours  as  much  as  anybody  else's?"  she  said. 

"Ay,"  he  answered  shortly. 

And  they  went  without  another  word,  for  the  long  mile 
or  so,  till  they  came  to  the  comer  of  the  street  where 
Harry  lived.  Fanny  hesitated.  Should  she  go  on  to  her 
aunt's?  Should  she?  It  would  mean  leaving  all  this,  for 
ever.    Harry  stood  silent. 


FANNY  AND  ANNIE  271 

Some  obstinacy  made  her  turn  with  him  along  the  road 
to  his  own  home.  When  they  entered  the  house-place,  the 
whole  family  was  there,  mother  and  father  and  Jinny,  with 
Jinny's  husband  and  children  and  Harry's  two  brothers. 

"You've  been  having  your  ears  warmed,  they  tell  me," 
said  Mrs.  Goodall  grimly. 

"Who  telled  thee?"  asked  Harry  shortly. 

"Maggie  and  Luke's  both  been  in." 

"You  look  well,  don't  you! "  said  interfering  Jinny. 

Harry  went  and  hung  his  hat  up,  without  replying. 

"Come  upstairs  and  take  your  hat  off,"  said  Mrs.  Good- 
all  to  Fanny,  almost  kindly.  It  would  have  annoyed  her 
very  much  if  Fanny  had  dropped  her  son  at  this  moment. 

"What's  'er  say,  then?"  asked  the  father  secretly  of 
Harry,  jerking  his  head  in  the  direction  of  the  stairs 
whence  Fanny  had  disappeared. 

"Nowt  yet,"  said  Harry. 

"Serve  you  right  if  she  chucks  you  now,"  said  Jinny. 
"I'll  bet  it's  right  about  Annie  Nixon  an'  you." 

"Tha  bets  so  much,"  said  Harry. 
►    "Yi — ^but  you  can't  deny  it,"  said  Jinny. 

"I  can  if  I've  a  mind." 

His  father  looked  at  him  enquiringly. 

"It's  no  more  mine  than  it  is  Bill  Bower's,  or  Ted 
Slaney's,  or  six  or  seven  on  'em,"  said  Harry  to  his  father. 

And  the  father  nodded  silently. 

"That'll  not  get  you  out  of  it,  in  court,"  said  Jinny. 

Upstairs  Fanny  evaded  all  the  thrusts  made  by  his 
mother,  and  did  not  declare  her  hand.  She  tidied  her  hair, 
washed  her  hands,  and  put  the  tiniest  bit  of  powder  on 
her  face,  for  coolness,  there  in  front  of  Mrs.  Goodall's 


272  FANNY  AND  ANNIE 

indignant  gaze.  It  was  like  a  declaration  of  independence. 
But  the  old  woman  said  nothing. 

They  came  down  to  Sunday  tea,  with  sardines  and 
tinned  salmon  and  tinned  peaches,  besides  tarts  and  cakes. 
The  chatter  was  general.  It  concerned  the  Nixon  family 
and  the  scandal. 

"Oh,  she^s  a  foul-mouthed  woman,"  said  Jinny  of  Mrs. 
Nixon.  "She  may  well  talk  about  God's  holy  house,  she 
had.  It's  first  time  she's  set  foot  in  it,  ever  since  she 
dropped  off  from  being  converted.  She's  a  devil  and  she 
always  was  one.  Can't  you  remember  how  she  treated 
Bob's  children,  mother,  when  we  lived  down  in  the  Build- 
ings? I  can  remember  when  I  was  a  little  girl,  she  used  to 
bathe  them  in  the  yard,  in  the  cold,  so  that  they  shouldn't 
splash  the  house.  She'd  half  kill  them  if  they  made  a 
mark  on  the  floor,  and  the  language  she'd  used.  And  one 
Saturday  I  can  remember  Garry,  that  was  Bob's  own  girl, 
she  ran  off  when  her  step-mother  was  going  to  bathe  her — 
ran  off  without  a  rag  of  clothes  on — can  you  remember, 
mother?  And  she  hid  in  Smedley's  closes — it  was  the 
time  of  mowing-grass — and  nobody  could  find  her.  She 
hid  out  there  all  night,  didn't  she,  mother?  Nobody  could 
find  her.  My  word,  there  was  a  talk.  They  found  her  on 
Sunday  morning " 

"Fred  Coutts  threatened  to  break  every  bone  in  the 
woman's  body,  if  she  touched  the  children  again,"  put  in 
the  father. 

"Anyhow,  they  frightened  her,"  said  Jinny.  "But  she 
was  nearly  as  bad  with  her  own  two.  And  anybody  can 
see  that  she's  driven  old  Bob  till  he's  gone  soft." 

"Ah,  soft  as  mush,"  said  Jack  Goodall.    "  'E'd  never 


FANNY  AND  ANNIE  273 

addle  a  week^s  wage,  nor  yet  a  day's,  if  th'  chaps  didn't 
make  it  up  to  him." 

"My  word,  if  he  didn't  bring  her  a  week's  wage,  she'd 
pull  his  head  off,"  said  Jinny. 

"But  a  clean  woman,  and  respectable,  except  for  her 
foul  mouth,"  said  Mrs.  Goodall.  "Keeps  to  herself  like  a 
bull-dog.  Never  lets  anybody  come  near  the  house,  and 
neighbours  with  nobody," 

"Wanted  it  thrashed  out  of  her,"  said  Mr.  Goodall,  a 
silent,  evasive  sort  of  man. 

"Where  Bob  gets  the  money  for  his  drink  from  is  a 
mystery,"  said  Jinny. 

"Chaps  treats  him,"  said  Harry. 

"Well,  he's  got  the  pair  of  frightenedest  rabbit-eyes 
you'd  wish  to  see,"  said  Jinny. 

"Ay,  with  a  drunken  man's  murder  in  them,  /  think," 
said  Mrs.  Goodall. 

So  the  talk  went  on  after  tea,  till  it  was  practically  time 
to  start  off  to  chapel  again. 

"You'll  have  to  be  getting  ready,  Fanny,"  said  Mrs. 
Goodall. 

"I'm  not  going  to-night,"  said  Fanny  abruptly.  And 
there  was  a  sudden  halt  in  the  family.  "Ill  stop  with  you 
to-night.  Mother,"  she  added. 

"Best  you  had,  my  gel,"  said  Mrs.  Goodall,  flattered 
and  assured. 


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